tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25282202662249353642018-03-05T10:08:36.950-06:00Blind FaithWhen I was six I lost my dad for a year while he served in the Vietnam War. He was there because the soldiers he ministered to, had to be. He came home. Many of the soldiers he ministered to, did not.Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125BlindFaithhttps://feedburner.google.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-3180434418725617652008-12-30T17:01:00.001-06:002008-12-30T17:01:09.370-06:00The Briefing – A Short Discussion About a Long War<p></p> <div align="right">February 28, 1970</div> Dear Chaplain Miller, <p></p> <p><span class="dropcap">J</span>im, as I promised in my last letter, I’m going to share with you an experience I had at our brigade briefing.&#160; It was more like a stand up comic session that we had last night at a briefing just before dinner.&#160; I believe it was the Brigade Tactical Briefing.&#160; It took place at 1700 though it was scheduled for 1600.&#160; This ritual of evening briefings has a liturgical form all its own.&#160; It's held in a large room that is half screened around the circumference of the room to let the cool night air blow through.&#160; Most of the time there is no such thing as cool night air.&#160; Humid night air would be more like it.&#160; The entire staff turns out for this nightly show, if they are in base camp.&#160; In firebases, similar briefings go on much in the same manner, but a little less formal.</p> <span id="fullpost"> <p>At 1700 hours, the command sergeant major announced, &quot;Gentlemen, the Brigade Commander.&quot;&#160; Chairs clang as the men came to attention.&#160; The scuffling was greeted with &quot;Please be seated.&quot;&#160; More scuffling as the men began to try and get comfortable in their hard metal fold-up chairs.&#160; The commander was sitting in a soft, leather desk chair up front, facing a set of panoramic maps and briefing charts that his staff had been preparing most of the afternoon.&#160; </p> <p>&quot;Good evening, Sir!&quot;&#160; A major-type officer addressed the commander.&#160; He picked up a pointer and approached one of the charts.&#160; There were various color dots of round sticker paper all over the charts and maps.&#160; &quot;At spotter number one,&quot; he began, as he pointed to the obvious marker, &quot;1013 this morning Charlie Company, first of the fourteenth, spotted two figures, twenty meters to their north.&#160; Coordinates 35642196.&#160; They were wearing black pajamas, rubber tire sandals, pith helmets, carrying AK-47's, pistol belts and American canteens.&#160; Small arms were employed.&#160; M-79’s were also used, along with 82mm mortars.&#160; Artillery was called in; Bravo battery on the firebase expended fifty rounds of 105 mm.&#160; Ten rounds of 155's mm and ten rounds of 175's mm were fired from Camp Radcliff at precisely 1018 hours.&#160; Charlie Company then swept the area with negative findings and therefore it is assumed that the enemy fled in an unknown direction.&#160; Charlie Company will be extracted from their night location at first light or flyable weather, which ever comes first.&#160; There is no trace or any visible means of finding the trail they were on before the skirmish started.&quot;</p> <p>I was sitting in the rear of the room and I heard some sort of grunting eking out of the soft chair, and the briefer shook his head. &quot;Well, Sir, that's way they gave it to me at higher.&quot; I couldn't hear what the commander said.&#160; Then much louder, the commander said, &quot;Go on.”&#160; It sounded more like a sigh than a request.&#160; One of the officers sitting behind me whispered, “The old man hates that s##t about going in an unknown direction.&quot; <br />&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; </p> <p>Pointing at marker number two, the briefer continued.&#160; &quot;At this location, right about here,&quot; the wooden finger tapped the map.&#160; &quot;Delta Company, first of the twelfth second platoon, came across a small grass hooch.” The commander said something. &quot;No, Sir, it was a grass hooch, not a hooch filled with grass.&quot; The audience gave a polite laugh.&#160; The major went on.&#160; &quot;There were no hostile forces in the area.&#160; Upon searching the camp, our men found one AK 47 round, two M-16 cartridges, three pair of black wearing apparel, four pith helmets, five pongee sticks.&quot;&#160; The XO piped up, &quot;And a partridge in a pear tree.&quot; There was more laughter.&#160; I thought to myself, eight months till Christmas.</p> <p>The briefing went on for about twenty minutes.&#160; The commander got up to make a few comments. He started by saying, “We need to get out there and get some damn gooks. They can't keep disappearing in an unknown direction.&#160; G##damn it, we bring the whole f##ing war on the heads of two of those little bastards and nothing happens.&quot; </p> <p>Just as he was about finished, a voice from the rear of the room, said, &quot;F### you!&quot;&#160; &quot;F### you!&quot;&#160; “F### you!&quot;&#160; Everyone in the place began to laugh, not just a polite chuckle like they gave to the commander but deep belly laughter.&#160; The commander himself almost got tickled.&#160; &quot;Christ,&quot; he says, &quot;We can't even get rid of those damn lizards.&quot;&#160; That's right, Jim.&#160; They have a lizard, native to Vietnam that makes a sound that clearly says, &quot;f### you.&quot;&#160; I suppose he learned it from the GI’s.&#160; It was the first time I had encountered the infamous Lizard.&#160; The second time was at dinner after the briefing in the MASH Officer’s club.&#160; It seems that these lizards are drawn to the light and speak their mind at what they think about what is happening to their country.</p> <p>I'm enclosing a news article from the Stars and Strips newspaper as verification that I'm not just pulling your leg.&#160; I'll quote it in this letter as well, even though I don't have a date that the article was printed.&#160; Father Taddy was the priest that wanted the lizard avenged.</p> <p>LIZARD PLAGUING &quot;SERVICES.&quot;</p> <p>Camp Radcliff, Vietnam (Special)--A 2nd Brigade chaplain assistant is trying to put his outdoorsman's skill to work on a somewhat embarrassing problem at the 4th Inf. Div.'s Highlander Chapel.</p> <p>The nemesis in this case was the infamous Vietnamese &quot;Insulting Lizard&quot; who lurks in every nook, cranny and bush in Camp Radcliff and emits his limited vocabulary.&#160; From dusk to dark, the lizard would interrupt chapel business nightly with its own version of fire and brimstone.</p> <p>&quot;It got to be annoying,&quot; said Spec 5 Tom Wagner.&#160; &quot;That kind of racket is just not right for our atmosphere here&quot; (at the Highlander Chapel), he explained.</p> <p>Wagner thought the best way to cope with his antagonist would be to trap and then relocate the noisy reptile.&#160; So he scrounged a few simple materials and began construction of an &quot;Insulting Lizard Trap.&quot;</p> <p>&quot;I used to trap beaver back in Minnesota just for fun.&#160; I'd turn them loose after I caught them,” said Wagner.&#160; In no time, Wagner had finished his trap, made from a few boards, some screening and a coat hanger.&#160; The lizard trap was equipped with a trap door that is triggered by pressure put on the bait hook.&#160; His next problem was how to bait the trap.&#160; The lizard is still on the loose around the Highlander Chapel, still insulting everything in earshot.&#160; Wagner is still trying to come up with a sure-fire lure for the lizard.</p> <p>The &quot;Insulting Lizard&quot; referred to in the above article was the same species that interrupted the Command Briefing and the same one who, after eating hot cigarettes, expressed his true feeling about the ugly Americans in his country.</p> <p>Sincerely,</p> <p>Don</p> </span> <img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/hAzQyjadKgk" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com1http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/12/briefing-short-discussion-about-long.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-2667334189884015782008-12-24T23:51:00.004-06:002008-12-25T00:02:00.340-06:00The Men: Part II - A War Within Themselves<div align="right">February 27, 1970</div><br />Dear Chaplain Miller,</p><br /><span class="dropcap">T</span>his is a continuing part of a very long section about the men in Vietnam. I know I had some flashbacks to the men I worked with in Okinawa. For the most part, they appear to be the same, except the GI's here are in a real war. When I came into Camp Radcliff this morning, I saw one of these men of the bush heading to the chopper pad on his way out to the field. I noticed from a distance that his rucksack must have weighted over 70 pounds. His back was bent over and he was moving or plodding slowly. As he got closer, I could see the sweat running off his face. On closer look, I saw why he was laboring with his load. Strapped under his rucksack was a case of beer. When he looked up and saw me, his free hand gave me the &quot;V&quot; salute. He had his M16 in his right hand. His eyes gave me a big, white-eyed smile and his white teeth were shining out from his dark lips.<br /><br /><span id="fullpost">&quot;Hi, Chaplain,&quot; he called out. &quot;Everything ok out at Tuffy?&quot; he asked, but really not expecting an answer.<br /><br />&quot;They're getting ready to move, I think. But we still have some mopping up to do.&quot; I answered.<br /><p>&quot;They called me out today, ain't that a bitch?&quot; he responded to my answer.</p><p>&quot;You might say that,&quot; I laughed as we passed.</p><p>As I came up to him, I could read his helmet. Over here, helmets are sort of a billboard for the advertisement of what the wearer is trying to say. This GI had a peace symbol on the front of his steel pot; printed on the washed out camouflage canvas cover in black ink. On the right side there were a couple of cigarettes stuck in the headband and an image of a man and a woman in the act of intercourse. As I was passing him, I looked back and on the backside of the helmet what I saw in bold black lettering was &quot;John 3:16.&quot; I was tempted to ask him what he had on the other side of his helmet but I kept on heading back to my hooch.</p><p>When I got back to the Headquarters Orderly room, I stopped in to see what had been going on while I was in the field. They told me that Dave called and said he was at the Brigade Chapel, that they called a mandatory meeting of the chaplain's assistants. He told the NCOIC to tell me that Chaplain Honeycutt told him he had to come and that I could get back some other way. I had to laugh. Dave was so conscientious and a very good assistant.</p><p>It truly was a blessing to have men working with you that were self-motivated. I did not have to give him a list of things to do when I was in the field. And when I got back,there would be typed letters ready for my signature and appointments scheduled for troops who wanted to talk to me. When he knew I was coming in, my ice chest would be full of iced cokes. Dave was good soldier who was always ready to go to the field if needed. It was indeed a pleasure to have such a competent person around.</p><p>I know I started this letter off by talking about the &quot;Men&quot; in Vietnam. As I began to write and get into this chapter, I began to realize that almost all of the chapters written throughout my eleven months were about the men in Vietnam. So I'll bring this portion to a close, knowing full well that the men in Vietnam could be the second title for this book as I talk about blind faith. After all they are the reason for my being here in the first place.</p><p>Jim, my eyes are telling me to quit writing for a while and try to get some sleep. Tomorrow is another day. Tonight I can cross off another day in Vietnam on my short timer's calendar. It's a little depressing to do that so early in my tour, because I can see how far I have to go before I can call myself a short-timer. December is such a long way from February.</p><p>Good morning Jim, I'm continuing the letter from yesterday. I woke up at three in the morning. I stared into the darkness. Couldn't sleep. I sat up, reached into the ice chest and put a piece of ice in my mouth. I could hear the distant booming noise coming from the perimeter of Radcliff, where they intermediately sent illumination flares into the night. I thought it strange, that I was able to sleep in the field but had difficulty when I got back to base. I'll stop in and see Doc Gold tomorrow; maybe he can give me something.</p><p>I got up and opened the door to my hooch. It was pitch black out. You could see some security light across the area. I turned on my light; it is amazing what a light bulb can do to brighten an old tin wall inside small hooch. I opened my journal and started to put down my morning thoughts.</p><p>I guess I'll begin with where I stopped in my letter to you last night. That was a long letter I finished before going out last night. Let me see where to begin? I left the HQ and went over to my hooch.</p><p>I had moved out of my tent and made my home and office in an unused tin arms shack. It stood alone, outside the mess hall. It was about the size of a small camper trailer. It was ten feet long and six or seven feet wide. I talked the XO into letting me have it since the tent was getting shaggy and was in the middle of the enlisted barracks. He agreed, so Dave and I moved my cot into one side and a field desk in the other and two folding chairs. While I was out in the field the week before, Dave had piled up a large stack of Styrofoam box liners, from field hot boxes next to the door. They were about an inch and a half thick. He left a note saying these might be good insulation materials for the inside of the hooch.</p><p>Dave showed up before the mess hall opened for breakfast. He told me that the mandatory meeting was a ridiculous waste of time. The class was a training class on how an altar was to be set up and what vestments needed to go on the rack for the priest. It was his way of apologizing for not picking me up yesterday.</p><p>I told him about my experience with Pecker and Joe out at the firebase. He said that more and more troops were using drugs in base camp. That sometimes, the barracks were so fouled up with marijuana smoke that he had to get out so he wouldn't get high on second hand smoke. I told him that when I'm in the field, he might want to start staying in the hooch. We'll call it the Chaplain's office. That way it would not offend the officers who believe in separation of officers and enlisted quarters. Dave laughed at that, but thanked me and started to attach the styrofoam liner to the inside of the office.</p><p>It took most of the day to finish the task of lining the new chaplain's office, but it was well worth it. With the old fan I kept from my trip to Pleiku last month, the office was quite comfortable. The mess hall helped shade the building most of the time.</p><p>Honeycutt called me and told me I was expected to be at the Brigade briefing at 1600 hours at the HQ. I ragged him about scarfing up Dave for the assistant's meeting in the afternoon, leaving me to walk back from the chopper pad. He laughed, and like a good Baptist, blamed the Division Catholic Chaplain who called the meeting. It seemed that at one of the masses at Division, the assistant that was usually present for the mass was in the field, so a Protestant's assistant covered for him and didn't know where to begin. Thus a refresher course on setting up for a mass was given to all the division assistants. Before he hung up, he told me that Chaplain Bridgman asked him to ask me to give him a call if I came in today.</p><p>I called Hugh and we set up a dinner date after the evening briefing. We went to dinner at the officer's club at the MASH unit. We had rib eye steaks and were entertained by lizards that were attracted by the lights in the patio. Some of the other officer's would take a lighted cigarette and give it to a lizard. The lizards were about a foot long. It would take the cigarette and start chewing down to the lit end. When it got to the red-hot end, it would let out a yelp and run back up the tree and start nagging.</p><p>At this point in my journal writing, I decided to write a letter to you, Jim, about the briefing I had been in the night before. The lizard was the highlight of the briefing. For now I'll sign off and start a new letter about the lizard that interrupted a command briefing.</p><p>Sincerely,</p><p>Don</span></p><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/Trec8G2gtOw" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com0http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/12/men-part-ii-war-within-themselves.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-27323957623748177982008-10-24T09:27:00.000-05:002008-10-24T09:28:46.688-05:00THE MEN: Without Men, Would There Be War? - Part 3<span class="dropcap">T</span>he radio broke up our session and Joe had to go to the TOC.<br /> <br />As Joe left, I began to think about my experience with the racial situation in my life. In Morgan Park, Minnesota, where I was born, there was one family of blacks. They were called Negroes back then. The only time I saw one of them was when I went to a high school basketball games to see my brother play; one of the Negroes played on the team. When my family moved to St. Petersburg, Florida when I was eleven, I knew that there was a “colored” town near the city, but since the schools were segregated, I very seldom saw any of those residents; except when I took a bus, then they were seated in the back. In college and seminary, I began to be a little enlightened as to the problems between the races in America, but I didn’t pay a great deal of attention. I was wrapped up in my own life.<br /><span id="fullpost"> <br />I hadn't thought about that happening in Okinawa since I came to Vietnam. I just couldn't grasp the racial problems in our country or in our Army or in my life, for that matter. I guess I was always so involved in my own life and my own activities that I was not aware of the injustice, bigotry and hatred going on between races. I knew that many protesters were saying that Vietnam was a white man’s war to get rid of the blacks; that they were the one fighting the war for whites. After all, many of them couldn't go to college even if they wanted to. Therefore they were subject to the draft more than the whites. <br /> <br />I was in college when Martin Luther King was preaching for equal right for the blacks. I just didn't pay too close attention. I was going to college in Mississippi and for the most part, bought the white party line. I believed the posters that showed Martin with the communists. It was easier for me to say he was a communist and then go on and supply-preach in country churches, run track, and work on campus; after all, I had taken a wife and I was a struggling minister.<br /> <br />All that changed when I was called for jury duty. That began my awareness of the black prejudice going on in the South. I know it's hard to imagine, but I really had no idea of the magnitude of the race problem in America until I was called upon to do my civic duty.<br /> <br />When I reported for jury duty, I was selected. The case we were to try was that of an old Black man that had a small restaurant. He had purchased some equipment and was delinquent on the payments. The company that he owed money to was suing for payment. As I listened to the case unfold the first morning, I head him say he had sent them a dollar or two from time to time as particle payment.<br /> <br />I remembered my Mom telling me to always pay something on a bill no matter what and they can't do anything thing to you. I was thinking that he had tried to pay and that the company accepted the payment he sent. The judge called a recess for lunch and an local business man serving on the jury with me said, "Come on, son, I'll buy you a hamburger before we hang this nigger." I knew I was in trouble.<br /> <br />Like many Americans plagued with indifference at that time, I kept my mouth shut. I just didn't know what to say. After lunch we convened again and I was worried about what I should do. Well, I never found out. The Judge threw the case out, because the fellow had attempted to pay the bill. The company's lawyer apologized to the jury and the case was closed. I left quickly, not aware enough to be embarrassed for my silence. No wonder we had race problems when people like me just did not get it.<br /> <br />Both Black and White men in Vietnam faced death daily. They both were men of courage. 86% of the men who died in Vietnam were Caucasians and 12.5 % were Black with about 1.2 % of other races. The percentage of death to me is not important. The fact that any man must die in a war is enough to protest the need for war.<br /> <br />I had just about dozed off after my long story-telling session with Joe. The radio kept breaking the silence in the bunker, but I soon got used to the crackling sound and the occasional voice calling in a common check. Pecker came through the bunker door. He was such a big guy; we had to make the bunker longer than most just so he could stretch out on his cot. "Hi, Chaplain," he called out.<br /> <br />"You off for the night?" I asked.<br /> <br />"Yea, Joe's on the horn and nothing is happening so I'm checking in early," he said.<br /> <br />He began to fumble around in his ruck, grabbed what looked like a bulldrum bag, and said, "I need to step out for a smoke. See you later."<br /> <br />Jim, I know that you have heard that the soldiers in Vietnam are abusing drugs on a daily basis. I came to realize that, indeed, there were a lot of drugs being used here in Nam this year. I was aware that the 4th Infantry Division had executed an amnesty program for Marijuana users. If a troop turned himself in, he would be given amnesty and be forgiven. They would not be given article 15 or a court martial. However, reports indicated that the push of stopping marijuana use, gave rise to the abuse of heroin. Heroin could be used without odor filling the bunker. Thus it was harder to detect, unlike marijuana, which could be detected as the sweet and sour odor lingered in the air.<br /> <br />Some reports given thirty years later would suggest that some companies used drugs at the high rate of 30%. At the close of 1970, one Division reported that draftees in an exit survey reported that 15% had tried heroin and that 7% used it regularly. #4 plastic vials of heroin sold on the streets corners for $4.00 a vial.<br /> <br />I didn’t personally see any of this taking place in An Khe or when I visited Qui Nhon. However, I wasn’t looking for it so I guess, like my not seeing racial problems in my youth, I didn’t see the drug problems in my daily truck in Vietnam because I wasn’t looking for them. I should have been more aware; my hooch maid would ask me every day if I wanted some smoke. I also read in the Stars and Strips newspaper that it was reported in the States that almost every GI was abusing drugs somehow in Vietnam. <br /> <br />The stateside media and war protesters pictured the American GI laying around in opium dens, chain-smoking marijuana, bombing out on heroin, and if they didn't use drugs, then they were juicers, drinking booze until they were mindless. I never saw any thing like that going on. Jim, you must keep in mind that my experience was limited to the Central Highlands for the most part.<br /> <br />I personally knew that drugs were used and abused in Okinawa in 1969. Like the race problem, the command swept as much of it under the rug as possible. CPT Kelly who was the commander of one of my Companies while I was stationed in Naha called me late one afternoon. He told me he had a troop in his office that was out of his mind. He had been taking some kind of drugs and was having hallucinations of some kind. The Captain did know what to do and was asking for help. I told him to give me fifteen minutes and I would be right down. <br /> <br />When I got to his orderly room, the CQ told me that the captain had been in his office with Pvt. Handover for the last hour and a half. I knocked on the office door and called out, "This is the chaplain, and I’m coming in.” The first thing I saw was the Captain sitting on his desk. PVT Handover was in a chair in the corner of the room.<br /> <br />"Good evening, Chaplain," said Captain Kelly.<br /> <br />"What’s happening?” I asked.<br /> <br />"PVT Handover tells me that he took some drugs and now they're after him."<br /> <br />I turned to PVT Handover. "Who's after you?" I asked.<br /> <br />With a look of panic, this wild-eyed young solder mumbled, "They’re out there."<br /> <br />The CO said, "He told me he's not sure who they are, but he knows they are after him. Chaplain, I wanted to call the MP's but I think he needs help, not the stockade. I called the hospital, but they said he needed to come down before I could bring him up to the ER.”<br /> <br />The CO continued talking, “I would call Lieutenant Colonel Noble, but he would tell me to handle it. Handover has no history of drugs, but he said he took something this morning, He wasn't sure what it was and now they’re coming after him."<br /> <br />I went over to Handover, kneeled in front of him. He shied away. "Do you know who I am?” I asked.<br /> <br />"Yea, you're the Chaplain," said Handover.<br /> <br />"That's right, and I can get you some help. Colonel Nelson is a psychologist friend of mine who can help you and maybe get you admitted to the hospital. Would you go with me?" I asked.<br /> <br />"I don't want the CO to come," he answered.<br /> <br />"That's no problem," I said. Then I turned to the CO. "Why don't you go out into the orderly room and let me talk to him." The CO left.<br /> <br />Hanover was shivering and his eyes were glazed and wild-like. "You won't let them get me, will you?" he asked.<br /> <br />"No, but you'll have to go with me. Let me call the Doctor and he will meet us at the clinic," I said.<br /> <br />"No, no phone. I don't want them to get me," said Handover as he began to look around the room.<br /> <br />"Who will get you?" I asked again.<br /> <br />"They’re out there, waiting for me and they want to kill me," he said.<br /> <br />I thought to myself: he is really paranoid. I better just see if I can get him to let me take him up to the clinic. "I'll tell you what we can do. Let's sneak out the back door and get to my car and you hide so they won't see you and I'll take you to the Doctor’s. He’s a good friend of mine and he will help you."<br /> <br />"You want me to go with you now?" he asked.<br /> <br />"Yes, we can leave right now. I'll take you in my little car." I went to the back door, "I'm parked right out there," pointing.<br /> <br />Handover didn't move. I went over to him, took his hand and pulled a little and he got up and went with me to the door. I opened the door and pointed to my car. "Come on, let's run."<br /> <br />We ran to the car. I opened the passenger side and he slid in, and sat low in the seat so he could not be seen. I quickly got in the driver's side and started to drive. Handover reached up and locked his door. I drove out of the parking lot. I didn't call the doctor, nor did I let anyone know I was leaving. We had to drive about ten miles up the Island to the Psych Clinic. I pulled up to the front door, got out and then opened Handover's door. We ran into the reception room and up to the desk. I asked the clerk to get Doctor Nelson. She said he was in a group meeting and could not be disturbed.<br /> <br />Handover was looking around the room. His eyes were scary and he was crouching down. I pointed to him, "Specialist," I said with authority, "you disturb Dr. Nelson right now and tell him Chaplain Fowler needs him now, before he (pointing again to Handover) starts acting out."<br /> <br />In a few minutes Doctor Nelson had us in his office. He wanted to have Handover admitted to the hospital. However, Handover would not let him take him to the hospital. He insisted that I do the honor so [they] wouldn't get him. I agreed, and the Doctor called the hospital and by the time I got there, they had a room ready for him and Doctor Nelson took over. <br /> <br />Later that evening the doctor called me back and I thanked him for his help. His voice became loud and he said, “Chaplain, Handover is stable. You did the right thing; he was the worse case of paranoia I’ve seen in a long time. But, Chaplain, you might be the craziest officer I’ve seen in a long time. That was risky, taking him in your car on the highway. He could have done a lot of damage to you on that highway."<br /> <br />"I know it seemed every time he peeked out the window, there was a cop car cruising by. But I didn't think he was dangerous," I said.<br /> <br />"Well, you were fortunate he knew you, because sometimes a paranoid person will get fearful and attack anyone near them," he said.<br /> <br />"Thanks for taking him in, Doc. What was he on, anyway?”<br /> <br />"I'm not sure. But we have had a lot of guys using LSD lately. He looked like he was probably on LSD,” said the Doctor. <br /> <br />Jim, do you remember that fellow that threatened CPT Ford in his office with a dagger one night in Okinawa? Ford called me one night and asked if I could come over to his office ASAP. SP4 Avery was in his office and wanted to talk to me. His voice was kind of strange but I couldn't make out just what was going on with him. I guess I had some sort of feeling that something was wrong. I couldn't place who Avery was, but since his company commander was calling me, I went right on over.<br /> <br />In the orderly room, there were two MP’s with their guns drawn and their ears to the door. The Duty NCOIC told me that Avery was holding CPT Ford hostage.<br /> <br />"What do you mean by hostage?" I asked.<br /> <br />"I don't know," he said. "CPT. Ford said Avery had dagger at his throat and wanted him to call you."<br /> <br />Again, I didn't think of the danger. I went to the door. It was locked. One of the MP’s whispered, “If he opens the door, step aside and we'll rush him." <br /> <br />"I don't think so, Sergeant," I responded. "You stay put."<br /> <br />I knocked softly on the door. "This is Chaplain Fowler. Can I come in?"<br /> <br />The door clicked. I slowly turned the knob. The door opened. I stepped in.<br /> <br />Behind the door, SP Avery was standing next to CPT. Ford, holding a letter opener that was a miniature bayonet at the neck of the CPT. Ford. Avery was well over six feet tall, a large man with an angry look in his eyes. I stopped in my tracks. I recognized Avery as one of the fellows who attended chapel services regularly. I suggested that we all sit down and talk about what was going on.<br /> <br />It turns out that CPT Ford had a shakedown of the barracks (looked in the lockers of the soldiers) this evening. They found Avery had some drugs hidden in his footlocker. The Captain had called Avery into his office and was reading his charges to him and told him he would be held at the stockade until he had his court martial. Avery yelled out, “No, you won’t!” He jumped up and grabbed the dagger off the captain’s desk and pressed it to his throat. "I'm not going to no stockade," he said. "The captain is against blacks. He don't have to put me in no stockade." He was angry and frightened.<br /> <br />He looked wide-eyed and still angry. "What are you on now?” I asked.<br /> <br />"I don't know. I just know that I ain't going to no stockade tonight," he said.<br /><br />It was obvious to me that he was high on something and that he was dangerous.<br /> <br />I asked CPT Ford, "Do you have to put him in stockade? Can't he be held here in the area under guard until morning?"<br /> <br />Ford looked at me. "I might have been able to do that but I told these troops that I was going to have a shake down and if I caught anyone with any kind of drugs, I was going to put them in the stockade. Now if I change my mind and let Avery get over, the troops won't believe I will keep my word."<br /> <br />"So we have a stand off,” I suggested.<br /> <br />"I'll push this through his neck,” said Avery, pushing the point until it made an impression in the Captain's neck.<br /> <br />There was a brass trumpet sitting on the captain's desk and Avery picked it up with one hand. He also took this out of my locker.<br /> <br />"Do you play?” I asked.<br /> <br />"I'm learning," said Avery.<br /> <br />I thought to myself. What can I do? This guy is obviously disturbed and angry.<br /> <br />The captain said that he couldn’t keep him in the company or he would lose face by receding or changing his command. Avery might do something foolish. "Seems to me we have a stand-off," I said again. "Avery, how about the three of us going to the hospital. They can treat you for drugs, then they can release you to CPT. Ford or to the stockade and he can go on with this court martial." I said to Avery.<br /> <br />"If that won't work, the MP’s outside will break in here and someone will get hurt. I don't want to get hurt, and I don't want either of you hurt, so,” I said to Avery again, "let me take you to the hospital and get you admitted."<br /> <br />Still holding the dagger to the Captain's throat, "He'll have to go with us."<br /> <br />The captain got up slowly. Avery held the dagger to his neck. Then Avery picked up his trumpet in the other hand and headed toward the back door.<br /> <br />"Ok, chaplain, you drive," he said.<br /> <br />We got in the car and Avery sat in the back seat where he could hold the dagger at the throat of the captain. The hospital was seven or more miles from the office. I drove as safely as the roads in Okinawa would let me, being careful not to hit any big pothole and cause the dagger to injure the captain.<br /> <br />I pulled into the emergency room parking lot and we got out of the car. Avery took the trumpet with him. It was now 2430 hrs. He put the horn to his lips with one hand and began to blow. It was a shrill off-key blast that brought the hospital aides out of the emergency room door into the parking lot.<br /> <br />By now, Avery was acting very paranoid and disturbed. With the help of the emergency room staff, we took him into the emergency room. I reached out my hand very slowly and told him to give me the letter opener. He hesitated a moment and he drew it away from the captain’s neck and gave it to me. Captain Ford smiled at me and winked.<br /> <br />The nurse called the duty doctor to come the ER, “Stat.” When he showed up, he refused to admit Avery to the hospital. His reason was that he was not crazy but drugged and that he needed to be locked up rather than admitted to the hospital. <br /> <br />So there the three of us stood on the ramp to the emergency room. It was now 0145. Avery was coming down from his high. Captain Ford was over his need to have him jailed, but would not give in. He was still determined to have Avery arrested and put in the stockade.<br /> <br />"What happens now?" I asked.<br /> <br />Avery said, "The Captain won't put me in the stockade."<br /> <br />"Ok,” I said. "I guess you could run. I'm too tired to argue with you and I don't think the Captain here will stop you. But we will report that you’re AWOL and have an all points bulletin put out on you. The Island will be crawling with MP’s looking for you. You have threatened an officer and could be armed and dangerous and who knows, they might just shoot you on sight."<br /> <br />"Hey,” said Avery. "What the hell’s going on here? I don't want to be shot."<br /> <br />Then I said, "I'll tell you what we can do. The CO won't let you back in the company. You don't want to run, we can't pretend nothing happened. How about letting me take you to the stockade with CPT. Ford and I'll have them put you in. That way I'll be the one who put you in the stockade and Ford will not be the one to do that to you." <br /> <br />Avery was silent. "It's sure hot this morning,” he said. "Ok, chaplain, it will be cool if you put me in the stockade."<br /> <br />The three of us went to the stockade at 0200. I told them that Avery was coming in on his own and needed to be locked up because he was on some drugs. Avery was acting or putting on an act for the guards. He was acting crazy, saying things, and accusing them of trying to steal his money. He gave them all a really bad time that convinced them he was high on something. They put him behind bars and the captain and I returned to his company. <br /> <br />We were both tired and didn't say much on the way back to his HQ. As I let him out of the car, he leaned in though the window of my car and thanked me. "You know, chaplain, you might have saved my life."<br /> <br />"Mine, too," I answered.<br /> <br />I did not have any kind of experience with drugs like that in Nam. However, I would venture to say that my observation of drug use in Vietnam was limited to my command assignment. I just didn't have the experience like I had in 1969 in Okinawa. I think my view of drugs in Vietnam is like watching an accident happen. It depends from which perspective you view the situation. I'm sure drugs are a problem; it just so happened that I did not see the problems in my view of the accident of Vietnam.<br /> <br />I had just put my journal down when Pecker returned. "Oh, sorry, Chaplain. I didn't mean to wake you."<br /> <br />"I wasn't sleeping. I was writing a letter to a friend," I said.<br /> <br />"Who's the friend? Or is that none of my business?” asked Pecker.<br /> <br />"He's a chaplain friend of mine from Okinawa, Jim Miller. He is a mentor of mine that taught us how to get along with liturgical religious rituals and gave me strong support in the chapel that I was in charge of. I sort of use him as a sounding board, someone to let out my frustration on about this war," I said.<br /> <br />Pecker smiled and slyly commented, "I use a joint."<br /> <br />"Maybe you can help me," I suggested. "I hear a lot of the grunts use drugs, but I haven't seen much abuse myself, at least in our battalion. How many guys do you think are on drugs or use drugs on this firebase?"<br /> <br />Pecker was silent for a moment. "My guess would be about one or two out of five. If you count the amount of scotch used by the officers, it might be higher." He laughed.<br /> <br />"Do you mean that 2/5th of the troops are high out here?" I asked.<br /> <br />"No, they are not all high. Most only smoke when they come in from the bush. The officers know it. But they don't say much if you're sort of quiet with it. The amnesty program isn't working too well. Those who are afraid of getting caught smoking are taking to cigarettes laced with smack. You can’t smell that. Someone told me that the VC in the village were putting heroin in the marijuana they sell so they can get the GI’s addicted. That sort of scares me, but so far I haven't noticed any problems," he told me.<br /> <br />"When did you start using marijuana?" I asked.<br /> <br />"Me,” he laughed. "I was smoking pot since I was in high school. Vietnam has been great for me, in that pot is so cheap over here." He went on. "Most of the users I know all started long before they got to Vietnam. They can just get it so easy over here, and cheap."<br /> <br />"Aren't you afraid that it might cause problems if something happens out here and we're run over, like what happened on Warrior?" I said.<br /> <br />"Not really. I was smoking that night, but my reactions were fine. You guys had been drinking wine and beer all night at the party but everything worked out ok," he said.<br /> <br />"What about in the bush? I'm told that very little is used out there," I said.<br /> <br />"Closer to none, I would say. The guys police themselves. Damn! Our asses are on the line and I won't let anyone use drugs if I can help it. Of course, I don't go out too much anymore. Only when the CO has me go with him on his recon runs to the companies in the field," he said.<br /> <br />"I hope you don't get hooked on anything over here. You don't want to bring home any unwelcome souvenirs," I said.<br /> <br />"I hear you, chaplain. No sweat." He turned off his light and we both went to sleep.<br /> <br />The next morning, I flew back to Radcliff. When I got off the helicopter, Dave was not around and so I had to walk back to the battalion area. I really didn't mind. It was a cool morning for Vietnam and all I had to carry was my chaplain's kit. It was good to get back, even if it was going to be a short visit.<br /> <br />When I got to my hooch I made a pot of coffee and got out my writing material and continued my letter to Jim, about the men in Vietnam.<br /></span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/XAhc6bG2RdQ" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com0http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/10/men-without-men-would-there-be-war-part.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-11329804706406881652008-09-19T11:34:00.000-05:002008-09-19T11:36:07.147-05:00THE MEN: Without Men, Would There Be War? - Part 2<span class="dropcap">T</span>he only women in our area were the Nurses and the USO workers who were often called Donut Dollies. I had only a passing acquaintance with them. The men I got to know well because I lived with them. I bathed with them. I ate with them. I slept in bunkers with them. I went to the jungle with them. I went to the movies with them. I took malaria pills as they did. I counseled some of them. I prayed for and with them. I preached to them. I cried with them. I laughed with them. I feared as they did. I worked alongside of them. I bitched along with them. As much as they would let me, and as much as I dared let myself, I became one of them.<br /><span id="fullpost"><br />One of the things I did with the solders in Vietnam, at least for my first six months, was to continually build firebases. I had been in country for just over a month and I was living on my second firebase and was planning to move to another.<br /> <br />Jim, as you are aware, under normal circumstances, military policy officers do not live in the same quarters as enlisted men. On every military installation, there are officer’s quarters and enlisted quarters. There are officer’s mess and enlisted mess. There are officer’s clubs and NCO clubs. Like it or not, there's a military social hierarchy. Chaplains are often able to get around that situation. In a manner of speaking, we were the third sex in the military. We can have social friends that are both enlisted and officers. We are not to flaunt our relationships, but usually not too much is said if a chaplain mingles with all ranks. That’s why I was able to stay with Speedy on Warrior and move into a bunker with Joe and Pecker on firebase Tuffy.<br /> <br />Joe was a specialist five in our S-4 section. He was our radio and telephone operator or RTO. He was one of the most responsible men in our battalion. He was a 23-year-old draftee from the East Coast. His goal was to complete his tour without getting shot or wounded and to get back to his home in New Jersey. He had to drop out of college to earn tuition money for the coming year. Just as he went to work, his draft number came up and three months later, he was tugging through the Jungles of Vietnam. He was an 11-Bravo, infantry, blue leg who served over eight months in the bush and earned his short timer’s assignment as the battalion RTO for the remainder of his tour.<br /> <br />He told me, "I didn't plan to work for the government, but a month after I left college, Uncle Sam hired me."<br /> <br />"You could have gone to Canada," I said.<br /> <br />"I don't think so,” said Joe. "They gave me a job I couldn't refuse. Besides, I needed the money."<br /> <br />Joe took time to teach me about being an infantryman in the bush. "When I first reported to the 1/12, I was an 11-Brovo, infantryman," he told me one night. "I spent over eight months, humping the bush and living in the jungle for weeks at a time. I went for three weeks without a bath after being in country for a month."<br /> <br />"Did you get into any skirmishes?" I asked.<br /> <br />"We tried to avoid Charley as much as possible, but sometimes it was unavoidable. We had four men killed and I don't know how many were wounded, while I was in the squad. I really pushed to get my ass assigned to this job," Joe said, as he pointed to the radio.<br /> <br />"Must have been scary out there?" I suggested.<br /> <br />"I was always afraid," he said. "Hell, all of us were. The only thing that mattered was saving our f***in’ asses.”<br /> <br />I didn't flinch at what I used to consider cuss words. Now they were words of war.<br /> <br />"You had to stay out in the jungle for two weeks?” I said with a rather surprised voice.<br /> <br />"Most of the time. Sometimes we stayed out three weeks. It passed the time but I never got use to smelling like s*** all the time. I never really slept at night and the food was rotten. Except when we were re-supplied. But then Charley would know where we were and they would put in a sniper or lob mortar, anything to f*** us up."<br /> <br />"Joe, did you ever have to kill anyone one?” I asked.<br /> <br />"I don't know for sure, whenever a sniper would let off a few round, our whole company would open up and call in artillery or gun ships and all kinds of s***. No, I don't think I ever killed anyone that I know of, and I'm glad of that," answered Joe.<br /> <br />I said to Joe, "When I was in Okinawa taking some Vietnam training with the Green Berets, they told me that race relations was a problem sometimes in Nam. What's your take about that?"<br /> <br />He told me that the men out in the bush are together, but when they get into the firebase, the blacks gather in their hooches and play their music and the white gather in their hooches and play country western. When they get back to base camp for a stand down, the problems get even worse. In the villages, the blacks have their area and the whites theirs. The other ethnic groups sort of stay to themselves because they don't have the numbers to form their own group. "But in the bush,” continued Joe, “the men know that they have to depend on each other. No one allows drugs or marijuana or alcohol or race s*** to get in the way of protecting our asses."<br /> <br />I had to agree with Joe's analysis of the race situation. I noticed when I went out into the bush to hold religious services that there was a real team spirit among all the men. I usually had two groups come for services. The first group would fall in, close to the command center and the other group would stand guard around the perimeter. When I finished the first service, the other guards would change places and they would come in for services while the others took over the guard duty. <br /> <br />Most of the time the men were shirtless due to the humidity and jungle heat. When they came to my services, sometimes one might put on his shirt. It didn't seem to matter whether they thought I was Protestant or Catholic, Jew or whatever, all stood together, in reverence, black and white side by side. When I gave communion, I used the intention method, that of placing the wafer in a cup of wine and placing it on the tongue of the participant. The one thing I noticed was that they never asked what denomination I was, and I never made a point to tell them. All I ever said to them was to say that they were to take communion in the same manner that they did in the world in their home church. I was sure Catholics took communion along with me. All of them that participated appeared to want something tangible to be a part of their worship in the jungle. There were Whites, Blacks, Hispanics, and on one occasion a South Vietnamese scout took part in the service. He could have been a Buddhist as far as I knew.<br /> <br />After the formal part of the service I would talk to the guys about almost everything. They would all gather around and share cigarettes, passing along the butt from person to person, handing it through the group, black to white to whatever. They would pass a canteen of water along in the same matter, not bothering to wipe the rim before taking a long drink. In the bush, they shared almost everything, water, food, smokes, socks, shirts, and even pants. They would have shared underwear except that most didn't wear any because of the sweating. They did not see color; they only saw brothers sharing with each other to make sure they didn't come back in body bags.<br /> <br />However, when they did come back to the firebase, I noticed, as Joe pointed out, the Brothers went their way, to their bunkers and back to their life style and the Whites to their own hooch and way of life. There wasn't any fighting among them that I saw on the firebase. They merely ignored each other. They were civil to one another most of the time. When they did get together, the conversations were about the bush, lifers, women, food, and the numbers of days left before DROUS. There was good-natured kidding within the races most of the time on the firebase.<br /> <br />One step back from the firebase, the distance between the races appeared to get wider. The Black Brothers went to their AO's and the Whites had their areas of operation. They would come together for religious services. However, I noticed that even then, there would be fewer blacks coming to the division services, and brigade services and when they did, they tended to sit together.<br /> <br />On Sundays when I went down to the unit level for services, even at base camp, both races would be just about even in attendance but sitting in their own race groups. I have no personal recollection of any race riots or skirmishes or unrest at base Camp Radcliff.<br /> <br />I did hear of some alterations from time to time between the Brothers and Kickers at our chaplain’s Staff meetings. A “Kicker” was the name given by the Blacks to describe those who were into country western music. Those chaplains who didn't go to the field said that there was a lot of tension among the races in base camp. That was one reason Chaplain Kelly at Division gave in to the chaplains for having character guidance classes, like chaplains had back in the States; to help the command to deal with race relations and tensions. <br /> <br />I have no way to measure the effect of the guidance classes. I do as little of them as possible while I’m here in Vietnam. I feel that having command training for social morality in this country is a sham. The men are marched into the class given by the chaplain, and staff sergeants stand by to make sure they don’t fall asleep. Most of the men could care less about attending these classes when they are standing down from fighting the war.<br /> <br />At one point in my conversation with Joe about the race problem, he asked me, “Chaplain, how bad is it getting in the States? I'm from up north and really never got into any problems with the Brothers. Since being in the Army and over here, I still don't know much about the so-called race riots. They leave me alone and I leave them alone."<br /> <br />"Joe," I answered. “I don't know much about riots either. There seem to be plenty of unrest and unhappy reactions among both the blacks and whites. I was stationed in Okinawa before coming to Vietnam and we had our share of racial problems. The command insisted that chaplains address the issue in character guidance classes. But there were tensions in the barracks and sometimes in the village nudie clubs, fights would break out when a Black showed up in a White club or a Whitey showed up in Black territory."<br /> <br />"As a chaplain, did you ever have any personal knowledge of racial problems?” asked Joe.<br /> <br />"Well, yes, I did get involved in a situation that could have been explosive when I was in Okinawa. It was the only one I got into, but that was enough."<br /> <br />"What happened?" he asked.<br /> <br />"Let me see, where to begin. It was last year, in January.”<br /> <br />Jim, I'm sure you will recall that situation. I remember you helped me write up the after-action report I had to do. <br /> <br />I went on telling Joe my story. “I had just finished an evening service at the Chapel in Machinato, Okinawa. I was in my civvies as I usually dressed for the evening service. I headed home and I noticed the lights were still on at the Youth Center. Since I was on the youth board, I thought I would stop by to see what was going on. The place was almost empty. There were two teenagers playing pool and Sergeant Jones, one of the NCO’s in my battalion, was in charge. As I entered, I called out, "Hey, Sergeant, not much going on tonight."<br /> <br />"Not here,” he said. "But there's a real problem brewing in Naha."<br /> <br />"What's happening down there?" I asked.<br /> <br />"The Brothers at the NCO club are about to explode," he answered.<br /> <br />"Why, what's going on?" I asked.<br /> <br />"I got out of there as soon as I could; some of my friends are threatening to take on Alpha Company across the street and their Commander, CPT Fowler," he answered.<br /> <br />"Sounds serious. What's the problem?" I asked.<br /> <br />"There's a whole bunch of problems,” he said. "The white guys from A-Company across the street from the club are sticking their heads out of the windows and calling us niggers and mother f***ers." He paused, "I'm sorry Chaplain, but you wanted to know.”<br /> <br />“The club is packed with angry brothers and I think a riot might break out. I got the hell out of there. I had to work tonight, and besides I can't afford to get into any trouble. My CO has me up on an article 15 charge for failing to repair as it is. I was an hour late for formation last week. My car broke down on the way in and I had to hitch a ride. Captain Fowler wouldn’t give me a break."<br /> <br />“Who's your CO?" I asked. I had forgotten that there was a new company commander named Fowler. Naha was near the end of the island and he was new to the command. I hadn’t met him yet. I knew A company was loaded with problems. I had visited the area a couple of weeks earlier and felt a lot of tension. I thought most of it came from the work they did in the warehouses and shops. I didn’t realize that there were high racial tensions going in the barracks as well. <br /> <br />"Captain Fowler of A company," he answered.<br /> <br />"Do you think I should go down and check it out?" I asked.<br /> <br />"It wouldn't hurt, but be careful," he paused. "My CO is in the middle it,” he said.<br /> <br />"Well, he's no ken of mine but I might be able to get help," I said.<br /> <br />Joe interrupted me. “Chaplain, wasn't Sergeant Jones Black?"<br /> <br />"Oh, yeah," I said. I opened up a coke, took a drink. "That's the good thing about being a Chaplain. The troops generally accept me and appreciate me no matter of my color. So they generally talk to me before they talk to any other officer."<br /> <br />I went on with my story; "I jumped in my little Mitsubishi car and headed to Naha. I didn't bother going home to get into uniform. I had no idea what to expect so I didn't have a plan. As I pulled up in front of the NCO club, I could see the soldiers in Alpha Company hanging out of the barracks’ windows and yelling derogatory names at the blacks in the club. <br /> <br />There was only about five hundred feet between the barracks and the club. The company was all lit up, there were troops standing by the door, giving the bird to the blacks who were milling about the club. The club was dangerously full of men, others outside were yelling back the A Company troops. I had to push myself through the front door to get into the club.<br /> <br />As I got into the club, one E-8 stopped me and asked, “Who in f*** are you?” One of my battalion NCO’s told him I was the Battalion Chaplain. Then that NCO came over to me and whispered, “Damn, Chaplain, what in the hell are you doing here in civvies?” <br /> <br />I told him I didn't have time to change, that I had met Sgt. Jones in Machinato and he told me that something was going down tonight.<br /> <br />"Chaplain," said the E-8, "this place is going to blow up. Look at the crowd. There must be over three hundred brothers packing this place. Several of us tried to break them up but some are drunk and pissed off with CPT. Fowler for not controlling his men and all hell is about to break loose."<br /> <br />I asked, "Where's the club manger?"<br /> <br />"He locked himself in his office," answered the E-8.<br /> <br />"Let's go and see him," I suggested.<br /> <br />I went to the office and knocked on the door. He came to the peek hole in the door. "Who in the hell are you?” said the manager.<br /> <br />"I'm the Battalion Chaplain." I answered. “Can I come in? We need to talk.<br /> <br />"What the f***,” I heard him mutter as he opened the door.<br /> <br />I told him, "You got a bomb out here, and you better close the club as soon a possible."<br /> <br />"I can't do that unless the General authorizes me to," he said.<br /> <br />"Have you called him?" I asked.<br /> <br />"No," came his terse reply.<br /> <br />"Damn,” I said. "Give me the phone."<br /> <br />I first tried to call my battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Noble. He was at a party at the General's house. I then called our XO but he was in the shower. I told his wife that it was important that I speak with him. He came to the phone and suggested that I call the General quarters and inform the CO what was going on. He said that he would be down as soon as he could get dressed.<br /> <br />I called the General’s house and talked to Lieutenant Colonel Noble and he put the General on the phone. The General asked to speak to the club manger and told him to close the club, “now.” Then he would get the Military Police down there as soon a possible. <br /> <br />Three sergeants from the battalion began to help by taking charge and moved throughout the club, telling the crowd that the MP’s were coming and they needed to get the hell out of there.<br /> <br />Joe broke in again, "Damn Chaplain, you were the only white guy in the club."<br /> <br />"That's right," I said. "But I wasn't even thinking about that.” <br /> <br />“I decided to pay a visit across the street to the barracks to find out what was going on with Alpha Company and Captain Fowler,” I said.<br /> <br />I went on with my story. “The tension was just as hot as it was in the NCO club. The men were mostly drunk or high on drugs and cussing and yelling obscenities to the blacks as they were leaving the club. Some, who didn't recognize me in civvies, wanted to know who the f*** I was. The Duty NCO met me at the door. He knew me and welcomed me. "Damn, Chaplain, this place is dangerous. Everyone is drunk and itching for a fight," he said.<br /> <br />"Where's Captain Fowler, Sergeant?" I asked.<br /> <br />"I'm not sure, Sir. He may be in his office," he answered.<br /> <br />I walked right into the office; I was getting angry and didn't care what the CO might have thought. Fowler was sitting behind his desk. It was obvious to me he was drunk and not in control of himself, let alone his company.<br /> <br />"Captain," I said. "Are you aware of what's going out in the area?"<br /> <br />He stood up and began to stagger around the desk. "Damn right I know. We’re going to kick some these black mother f***er's butt." He slurred as he spoke.<br /> <br />I said, “That’s crazy, captain. The situation, it's getting out of hand. I just had the General close the NCO Club and the XO is on his way down here as I speak."<br /> <br />"I don't give a good g**damn who's coming," said Fowler. He moved over to his safe and began to fumble with the combination. After several starts, he opened the safe. "Chaplain, I'll show you what I'm going to do." He showed me a .45 and a clip of ammo. He pounded the clip into the gun and said, "I'm going to shoot those mother f***in’ niggers. That's the only way to stop this s***."<br /> <br />My anger began to move into fear. What in the blazes was I doing here? I asked myself. <br /> <br />“I went up to the captain, put my hand on his shoulder and with my other hand, led him to put his weapon on the top of the safe. “Come on, let's sit down and cool off a bit,” I suggested to him. He came over to his desk, forgetting the gun. He started babbling incoherent obscenities about the “niggers” and the moral of the battalion. I signaled the NCOIC to take the .45 and lock it in the arms room. He caught my eye, realized what I wanted him to do, and removed the weapon from the office. When the captain realized what had happened, he started to yell and take off to the arms room, but was met in the hall my Major Mattson, the Battalion XO.<br /> <br />Matt stopped him cold. He got right in his face and commanded him to return to the office and to stay there. Fowler mumbled something but turned and retreated to his office. Matt then spotted me. “Chaplain, what going on?” he asked.<br /> <br />I explained as best I could what had transpired since I last spoke to him. He told me that the MP’s had just arrived in the area (two truckloads of them) and Lieutenant Colonel Noble and the Commanding General were on their way down to the area. He then told the NCOIC to make him a list of all the troops that were in the barracks and those who were causing the problems as far as he could tell. “Beginning with your Company Commander,” Matt said.<br /> <br />"That's it, Joe. That's as close to a race riot as I ever want to be."<br /> <br />Joe thought for a minute, then said, "Sure is strange, the way that works. The further away the troops get from the bush, the more likely they are to riot. That's weird."<br /> <br />"I know, I've only been here for a little over a month and haven't really seen any problems between the Blacks and the Whites," I said.<br /> <br />"What happened to that Captain Fowler?" asked Joe.<br /> <br />"I'm not sure, he just disappeared. Within a week, we had a new Alpha Company Commander," I answered.<br /> <br />"What did they do to the troops?" asked Joe.<br /> <br />"Let me see,” I thought for a moment. "Not much as I remember, they sort of swept it under the rug. I know my supervisor Chaplain, COL. Harms tried to get a medal for me for squelching a potential riot. He put me in for a Legion of Merit. He got a packet of letters from those involved suggesting I was responsible for keeping a potential explosive situation from blowing up. He had about twenty letters of commendation from various commanders and NCO’s who were involved. But the 2nd Log Commanding General wouldn't pass on it, because it would mean he had a race problem in his command and he didn't believe there was a problem."<br /> <br />"What did your commander say to you after things cooled off?” asked Joe.<br /> <br />“The next morning they had a barracks shake down. The MP's went through the whole building, checking the entire lockers and beds and everything. They found several stashes of marijuana and some other junk, but what became more important was the amount of weapons, mostly homemade ones that they uncovered. My CO, Lieutenant Colonel Noble called for me to come down to the company HQ the next morning and there he showed me a room full of these inventions of distinction. <br />They had machetes shaped so sharp you could shave with them. There were lead pipes, brass knuckles, and an assortment of chains. Steel hammers with chains welded to the handle and various sizes of baseball bats. There must have been over a hundred individual weapons; all of them could have killed someone. The Colonel pointed out to me that I was in the middle of a war. We laughed about it and he thanked me and told me that I would be hearing from him.”<br /> <br />“When I started to drive back home, I felt weak and nervous. I got sick to my stomach. It hit me that I could have been killed if that night had erupted. When I left the Battalion for Vietnam, they gave me a hammer with a lead pipe handle and a chain welded to it. The card that came with the weapon said I could use it in Vietnam if they would let me take it into country.”<br /></span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/VTfEJoJ89Lk" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com0http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/09/men-without-men-would-there-be-war-part.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-80776951169016010822008-08-27T17:03:00.002-05:002008-12-24T23:55:25.853-06:00The Men: Without Men, Would There Be War? - Part 1<div align="right">Monday, February 26, 1970</div>Dear Chaplain Miller, <br /><br /><span class="dropcap">J</span>im, I finally found some time today to write my thoughts and observations to you. The other day I sent you a letter about the women in Vietnam. In this letter, I'll try to talk about some observation about the men in country.<br /><span id="fullpost"> <br />I returned from Pleiku and dropped off the chapel supplies that Chaplain Honeycutt had asked me to pick up from the Pleiku Chapel. Then Dave and I drove over to our Battalion Headquarters to let them know we had returned. At HQ we found that the Battalion firebase had moved to a new location five miles from Warrior and deeper into the jungle countryside. The HQ company commander told me that the new firebase would be called Tuffy. He also said the men would not be coming back for a stand-down until the firebase was operational.<br /><br />As I was about to leave the HQ and head back to my hooch, the Sergeant Major who had just come back from the firebase stopped me, "Chaplain, you better get out to Tuffy. The troops are really feeling down. They thought they would be coming back here for a stand-down for at least three days. Now, they have to stay out in the field and build another new firebase. They need a break but the Division told The Old Man that we would have to wait until the new base was set up," he said.<br /><br />I told Dave to get my gear ready for me and I'd check and see if I could get a chopper out in the evening. As luck would have it, I got ride within the hour. The pilot had me sit up front and wear a helmet with radiophone in it. I felt important; it was the first time I flew up front in the co-pilot’s seat. The pilot and I were able to chat as we flew out to the new firebase, Tuffy.<br /><br />He said that the new LZ was a "hot LZ,” meaning that the landing zone was apt to receive sniper fire. On our flight out, he pointed out some landmarks to me, a small cluster of straw huts, a brown twisting river and a patch of banana trees that he said belonged to the VC. I didn’t ask him how he knew it belonged to them. He said that we were flying low and hugging the jungle canopy of trees to avoid any quick sniper fire before arriving on the firebase. When we were ten minutes out from the base, he radioed into the TOC to let them know we were about to come in for a landing. The S-3 cleared him to land on the new LZ and for him to alert our door gunners to watch for sniper fire.<br /><br />As we approached closer to the landing area, the pilot called into the TOC again to let them know he was about to land and what he was carrying. I was surprised as I listened over the chopper radio to hear the pilot call in to the command, “This is T-36 with a re-supply and one pack, The Batman."<br /><br />Specialist Joe Desart, the S-4, was on the other end of the radio. There was a brief pause and then he came back with, “Say again, over."<br /><br />"I repeat, I have one Batman,” said the pilot. <br /><br />The radio was silent for several seconds again. Joe came back over the chopper’s radio, "The Man (meaning the CO) wants to know, what in the hell is a Batman?"<br /><br />"Skypilot," the pilot said.<br /><br />"I read you. Tell him to report to the TOC when he arrives," said Joe.<br /><br />"Roger that. Here we are," said the pilot to me over the headset. Giving me a thumbs up sign as he did a quick turn and approached the LZ, lowering the chopper rather quickly.<br /><br />Because of the sniper warning, the pilot didn't make a normal pass over the base. Since the base was just getting built and many of the GI's had put up poncho tents and shade while they dug their bunkers, the pilot didn't want to blow them away. Also he said to me as we were going down “that a fast landing and fast get-way might keep Charley from opening up on him.”<br /><br />I had been in country long enough to know that the enemy had many names. There were the politically correct names used in the Command briefing such as the VC, meaning the Viet Cong. NVA or The North Vietnam Army, they also were called the NVL or the North Vietnam Liberation front. There were other less politically correct names for the enemy such as Charley and Gook or LBs, Those Little Bastards. <br /><br />We landed, unloaded and the chopper was out without a shot being fired. I ran over to the TOC area to report to the CO.<br /><br />A firebase in its infancy is a sight to behold. The war won't stop for construction and everyone who is not out in the jungle is working their tails off, building bunkers and setting up fields of fire so they can be secure by nightfall. The Recon Platoon and Bravo companies or Infantry companies or Grunts or Troops, or Blue legs or GI's; what ever you want to call them were units of the 1/12. A company and C company were also out in the bush. They were scouting the area for the sniper who was ruining the day for the battalion as it tried to complete the occupation of it’s new firebase, Tuffy.<br /><br />Lieutenant Colonel Sterling welcomed me to the area. "What's the weather going to be like?" he asked, giving me his big grin. Then he went on and told me that orders came to move the same morning I left for Pleiku. He didn't see any need for me to get involved the first day, but wanted me out here as much as I could. He promised me again that he would see that I got out to the units in the bush at least once or twice a week. I told him that was fine and then I asked if I could be excused to try and dig a hole for myself for the night. "Of course, maybe you can find someone to move in with. You'll have to help them build a bunker though; most of the troops are still on top of the ground. “They won't get my damn TOC in a hole until tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I'm not going anywhere,” said the CO as I was leaving.<br /><br />Specialist Joe Desart, the S-4 who operated the command radio, looked up as I was leaving the area. "Say Batman, I got a place started but I can't get away from the horn with the action out in the bush. I started a hole but had to leave it so I could cover the radio.” Pointing eastward he said, “It’s just over there by that tree. Pecker's there now, digging and filling sandbags. If you want to help out, we can make it big enough for three."<br /><br />"Pecker?” I asked.<br /><br />"I'm sorry, Captain. I mean Specialist Peter Murphy; he pulls the night shift on the horn," said Joe with a sheepish grin on his bearded face.<br /><br />"I'll call you Joe, if you'll call me Chaplain or Chap or even Batman."<br /><br />Joe laughed. "No problem, Chap."<br /><br />Lieutenant Colonel Sterling heard our conversation. "That will be fine out here, Chaplain, but in base camp you need to stay with the officers. This damn war has some protocol.” He laughed. “By the way, what in the hell was the code word, Batman, all about?"<br /><br />"I have no idea. That was something the sky man called me," I answered.<br /><br />Joe was laughing. "I asked the pilot where he came up with Batman and he said he couldn't think of Skypilot at the time, so he said Batman, because the chaplain is always swooping in on the troops to say a prayer."<br /><br />Sterling smiled, "You better get to digging. There are a couple of hours of daylight left."<br /><br />I worked my butt off that evening. Pecker and I got the bunker halfway finished. Joe came over a little later and the three of us got with the program. We humped timbers from around the area to put over the hole so we could put sandbags on them for overhead protection when we were finished. Joe insisted that we build a large bunker so the three of us could sleep and play cards and relax under three layers of sandbags. He needed extra room for a radio. If he had a radio in his hooch, he wouldn't have to stay up all night at the TOC. So we worked until chow time and didn’t quite finish. That night I slept under the stars in a large hole with only several timbers overhead, cuddled up in a sleeping bag.<br /><br />The next morning I got up early, made a canteen of chocolate milk, put in three or four extra cremates and opened a can of peaches from the C rations for breakfast. The mess hall wouldn’t be set up until the evening. The rest of the day, I spent digging and filling sandbags and by the close of day, we had safe and secure hooch with radio and three layers of sandbags overhead. What I didn't expect was that the hooch was not only safe from enemy mortars; it was also an ideal place for a little "pot smoking."<br /><br />It seemed that Pecker had a little unauthorized habit. Joe said he only smoked a little and he never smoked on duty. I sat down with Pecker and suggested to him that he needed to wait until I went into base camp, or to at least smoke when I was not in the hooch.<br /><br />"No problem," he said. Then he asked me. "Chap, you won't say anything to the CO, will you?”<br /><br />"Not unless he asks," I said.<br /><br />"Thanks, Chap. That's cool."<br /><br />That evening, HQ at base camp flew in some "hots" (Meals in thermo cans) because the mess hall still wasn't ready to start cooking. Sterling called me up to TOC to eat supper with him. We got to know each other quickly over the short time we were both in country. We shared our families, philosophy and religious view and from time to time, what we thought of the war. He was Protestant, but not of any particular denomination. During our conversation he asked, "How's your bunker coming along. You and the S-4 getting along all right?"<br /><br />"The bunker’s fine and I like having the radio there. I can keep up with what's going on out in the field." I answered.<br /><br />"You like that funny weed that Pecker smokes?" he asked with a weary smile.<br /><br />"I haven't seen him smoking anything but Luck's," I said.<br /><br />"Now, Chaplain," said the CO, “I know he smokes marijuana, but he and Joe are the best damn troops on this base. I would rather have one or both of them out here with me than any other GI in the Battalion. I know he smokes a little. I told him to keep it to himself or I would bust his ass. They both told me that they only do it a little."<br /><br />"I haven't had a problem with them smoking," I said.<br /><br />"Good, just let me know if they get carried away." That was the last word the Colonel said about the matter to me.<br /><br />After dinner, there were a couple of hours of daylight left. It was a cool evening in the jungle mountains. The sniper had been quiet for the day, so I sat down on the bunker, took out my journal and stationary and continued to put my thoughts down in this letter to you to let you know what was happening to me so far in the war.<br /><br />[The good thing about waiting thirty years to rewrite this letter is that I can give some data that I didn't have available to me in 1970. When I use statistics in this writing, they are open for criticism as most statistics are. Those who opposed our action in Vietnam had one interruption and those who were pro Vietnam War have their rendition. I will merely provide them as a matter of interest.]<br /><br /><br />Jim, I can't help but ask myself, "Just what kind of men are in this war?” Some are so young that to call them men is an error in judgment. I was thirty-five by the time I got to Vietnam, so anyone younger is a youngster, a lad, a kid, and many are still teenagers. However, no matter the age, some were reported to be as young 16 years old. A day or two in the bush, out in the jungle or rice patty with a heavy rucksack and a M16 in their hand, trudging hour after hour through monsoons and humidity that suffocates the very air one breathes, made them men. They may cry like a baby. They will do childish things. They have fears, anxiety, anger, hostility, love, commitment, and devotion - all a mark of the solider-man.<br /><br />They call some of their senior Sergeants, Pop, Big Daddy, Top. The Commanding officers are referred to as the Old man or just The Man. There are titles or names given to the various units within the Army itself. Names for such fighting men are, Blue legs, or Red legs depending whether your Infantry or Artillery. They answer to GI, Dogface, Grunt, Troop, Bushman Specialist, and Sarge, PFC, or Hey You. One wounded man told me that the bullet that wounded him didn't know what color he was, what age he was, what rank he was or what sex he happened to be.<br /><br />The men and women who were part of the 543,300 in country at the peak of U.S. commitment in Vietnam in 1969 were not all aware of what was happening to themselves or to the United States. The soldiers, who were facing the enemy and dodging the bullets that may be looking for them, were not fearing the political battles that were stirring the inside of the Belt-Way in D.C. The men I lived with on the firebase in the Central Highlands were on a mission. That mission was primarily to stay alive for 365 days and then take the freedom bird home.<br /><br />They had no idea the war would leave behind such statistics as 58,148 of their fellow soldiers killed in action. When they returned to the homeland and the freedom bird landed in Washington State, they listened to President Nixon's tape recording welcome them home. They had little interest in the statistic that five men killed in Vietnam were only sixteen years old. That the oldest soldier killed was sixty-five years old. When they headed home, they were not aware of the statistics that said 11,465 of their commanders killed in action were less than 20 years old. No one I talked to in December 1970 while I was on my way home, mentioned that the average age of the 11- Bravos killed in Vietnam was 22 years old.<br /><br />Those KIA’s in Vietnam all seemed to die before their time. There is nothing fair in war. The men and women who die in war are all cheated equally as far as death was concerned. It mattered not to any of us returning home that approximately 70% of those killed in Vietnam were volunteers. None of them that I knew before they were killed joined the military to die. They joined to fight. They joined to avoid the draft. They joined to serve their country. They chose Vietnam rather then Canada or jail. There may be as many reasons for a person to join the military, as are persons. None of them joined to die.<br /><br />Those 58,148 KIA’s who came into the military understood that they were risking their lives. Most of them I suspect, if we knew their reason for coming into the military, thought that in 365 days they, too, would be hearing President Nixon's recorded voice. "Welcome home, the American people are proud of you for serving your country." <br /><br />I'm sorry, Jim; I'm getting ahead of myself in this letter. The men I served with in 1970 were a part of the statistics in some way. My observation of these men was limited in scope to the men of the Fourth Infantry Division and Supportive Units in the Central Highlands at An Khe's Camp Radcliff and later at Camp Granite near Qui Nhon Nhon.</span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/naJwctVQ6kg" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com0http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/08/men-without-men-would-there-be-war-part.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-38097977730532631942008-08-20T21:38:00.000-05:002008-08-20T21:39:30.585-05:00THE WOMEN: The War Within The Man - Part 2<span class="dropcap">D</span>oug entered and took a seat. I knew he had gone on R & R for some rest and recreation earlier and had just gotten back. He looked worried as he took a seat. I poured him a cup of black coffee. "Sorry, no sugar or milk" I apologized.<br /><span id="fullpost"><br />"I take it black, Chaplain, that's the way we have it in the bush."<br /> <br />"Did you have a good time on R&R?” I asked.<br /> <br />"That's what I want to talk to you about." He stared at his coffee cup.<br /> <br />"Where did you end up going?” <br /> <br />"I went over to Taiwan. Vic from A Company went with me."<br /> <br />"Well, how was it? What happened? You don't seem too excited about the trip. Or is it having to come back here that's got you down this morning?" I wondered why he wasn’t looking at me.<br /> <br />"We went to Taiwan.” He went on talking. “You know, Chaplain, I got married just before I came to Vietnam. Cathy and I had planned to meet on R&R, but I couldn't get enough money together. Besides, she couldn't get off of work. Anyway, I ended up going alone." <br /> <br />I began to catch on. "You got into some trouble in Taiwan?” <br /> <br />"Yeah,” he said, hanging his head. He couldn't look me in the eye. He paused for a moment and continued. "I really didn't want to commit adultery. I told Vic that I was going to keep straight. You know, like you said about cussing. I was going to be different. At least I thought I could be different." <br /> <br />I knew the answer but asked anyway. "What happened? Can you tell me?"<br /> <br />He began to tell me. He arrived in Taiwan and he and Vic took a cab to their hotel. It was plush and cool and everything looked exciting. When he registered, the desk clerk asked him if he wanted a girl. Doug refused. The clerk couldn't understand. He asked him if he wanted a boy. Doug laughed at him and said no. “I want a hot bath and clean sheets and a steak dinner.” The bellboy took his bag and led him up to his room. It was a wonderful room, with complimentary fruit and wine. He tipped the bellboy and closed the door. <br /> <br />Soon there was a knock at the door. He opened the door and there stood a beautiful woman wearing a see-through gown. "You like?" she said.<br /> <br />“No,” said Doug and closed the door. When he got out of the shower, there was another knock on the door. Again another attractive almost nude woman stood before him with a cart of lotions and fresh towels. <br /> <br />"Maybe you want massage?” she asked. <br /> <br />Doug said. "I finally gave in. I thought a message would be nice and that would be it." She came in and I lay on the bed and before I knew it, I was unfaithful and it was over with."<br /> <br />"It's tough trying to resist temptation." I comforted.<br /> <br />"Yeah, I gave up fighting it and now I'm miserable and afraid I may bring something back to Cathy." <br /> <br />"You can go see Doc and he can check you out." I said.<br /> <br />"I'm going to do that. I wrote Cathy and told her all about it and how sorry I am that I messed up our marriage."<br /> <br />I was shocked. "You wrote Cathy already?"<br /> <br />"Yes, just as soon as I got back. Mailed it this morning. Do you think that was a mistake?” Doug asked.<br /> <br />"Well,” I started out. "Now she has to make a decision. Too bad, now you laid a trip on her. It's your sin and your guilt, but now she has to deal with it, too." <br /> <br />"I know,” said Doug, tears filling his eyes. "I thought she had a right to know."<br /> <br />"I'm not sure about the right business," I suggested. "Your punishment will be that you have to live with what you did. You can't go back and repair the damage. You could have asked God to forgive you and you know he would, but you still have to live all your life knowing you broke your marriage vows. That's a heavy load," I told him.<br /> <br />"What can I do now? I won't get home for another five months.”<br /> <br />I thought for a moment. Took a drink of cold coffee, sat silent for several minutes and finally I said to him, "Look, give me Cathy's address at home and I'll try to write her a letter explaining what you just told me. It may not help, but if it's ok with you, I'll try to help her understand what happened to you."<br /> <br />"I'm not sure it will help, Chaplain, but I don't think it can hurt anything either." <br /> <br />He wrote out the address, took the Kleenex I handed him, dried his eyes and went out the door saying, "Thanks again, Chaplain. Thanks."<br /> <br />The rest of the afternoon I attempted to compose a letter to Cathy. I suggested to her that Doug was very sorry for his actions. I told her about his tears and his genuine sorrow. I pointed out how his fellow grunts talked of nothing else but sex when they were back in the camp and in the jungle. Even in the field and at base camps, the bunkers are wallpapered with Playboy centerfolds. I explained to her about the pressure that he faced when he went to Taiwan. How they thought nothing of sex and that it was on every street corner and that was the way of life in the hotels. I told her I was sorry that they couldn't afford to be together. I told her of my previous experience with Doug and how faithful he had been to attend services and try to keep from being as foul mouthed as his buddies. I suggested that she had every reason distrust him now, but that I felt he would stay straight. He was heart broken for what he did. I didn't make a copy of the letter, but now I wish I had.<br /> <br />Two weeks after I sent the letter, I got an answer from Cathy. She told me that she had gotten both letters on the same day and she opened Doug’s first. It broke her heart and made her so angry that she didn’t read my letter until later. She took off her rings and wrapped them, getting ready to mail to him when she opened my letter to her. She said she didn’t know what to do after she read what I wrote.<br /> <br />She wept all night and asked the Lord what she should do. "Chaplain," she said, "This morning I decided to put the rings back on. I wrote Doug and told him I would try to forgive him this time, and we could talk about it when he got home. I do appreciate you taking the time to write to me. I guess I deserve some of the blame. I told Doug that it would cost too much for me to meet him in Hawaii. We could have borrowed the money. I'm sorry it happened but I do understand his needs and my own for that matter." She signed the letter. “Thanks again. Please pray for Doug and me.”<br /> <br />I guess what I'm learning alone in Vietnam is that women, the war within men, are not only the women here in Vietnam. However, as they represent the sexual thoughts of most men, they indeed are with the men in the field and at war. <br /> <br />The other day a young man came into my office and said, "Chaplain, I'm horny as hell."<br /> <br />"Ain't we all,” I responded.<br /> <br />"If that's true, what do you do about it?” he asked.<br /> <br />"Me?” I answered. Trying to shift the question back to him. "What do you think I do?”<br /> <br />"I have no idea. That's why I asked,” he said. "Do you get a boom-boom girl or do you beat your meat?"<br />I tried laughing. "You’re serious, aren't you?” I asked.<br /> <br />"I'm going crazy,” he said. "I don't think I can wait till I get my R & R."<br /> <br />"Ok. I'll tell you what I do. I don't beat my meat. But I do masturbate. I find relief in that way. It's not the same as making love to my wife, but it's a whole lot better and safer than poking it in a boom-boom girl."<br /> <br />He was stunned. He looked at me and repeated, "You masturbate?”<br /> <br />"Yes, I do sometimes. Now don't go blabbing to the other troops. I'm not ashamed to admit it, but I don't want to stir up any problems for the command. I just happen to think it beats the alternative. Please excuse the pun."<br /> <br />He laughed. "I guess most of us do the same thing. But no one talks about it. I've always been told it was a sin and that it could harm me."<br /> <br />"To tell you the truth, it won't hurt you or me and I'm not even sure it's a sin,” I said. "But if it is, I'm sure the Lord will forgive me for my weakness."<br /> <br />I would be amiss if I did not confess my experience of pushing the temptation envelope to the edge on a hot, sticky, sweaty afternoon. I had gone to Qui Nhon with Hugh, a chaplain friend from a sister battalion, to visit the hospital. His battalion had a jeep that they allowed him to drive. So two Baptist Chaplains were on their own in an evil city. We had spent a couple of hours in the hospital and another hour sitting in traffic on Highway Nineteen. My friend was a little more adventurous than I was. When he spotted a "massage parlor," he suggested we take a hot bath and get a massage. I agreed to the idea. After all, I was sweaty and hot. We had done our ministry and I was ready for the adventure. <br /> <br />Several military vehicles were parked in the makeshift parking lot. We looked around the area, half expecting to see a Baptist deacon or a woman missionary society member standing by watching who went into this parlor. It was a rundown building with orange, blue and yellow painted sides. One wall was made out of split beer cans. When we opened the door, a little bell rang and a Vietnamese man in a grubby dirty white shirt came to the front desk. “You want massage? Got two girls ready now. Five dollars American. You pay me now. Tip girls if you like.” He spoke through large yellow, front teeth.<br /> <br />I looked at Hugh. "Are you sure this is a good idea?' I asked.<br /> <br />"I need a shower and so do you,” he said.<br /> <br />"Come this way, gentlemen,” said the Vietnamese manager.<br /> <br />We went through a door that led out of the reception area into a long hallway with rooms running along both sides. My heavens, I thought to myself, what am I getting into? My last massage experience was in Tokyo at the officers club three years ago when Gwen and I went there for a vacation from Okinawa. Maybe the stories about these places in the city are true.<br /> <br />A very tiny young girl, wearing a loose-fitting T-shirt interrupted my thoughts. She was wearing short shorts. She took my hand and led me into one of the little rooms and said, "Take off uniform.” Too late to back out now, I thought. <br /> <br />Hugh was ushered into the next room. <br /> <br />She handed me large, white, clean towel. I went to the corner of the room and pulled back a curtain. She pointed to a shower. I got the message. I must confess the shower was hot and refreshing. As I stepped out of the shower, I started to dry myself with the towel. She gave a giggle and began to dry me off. Now what do I do? I thought to myself. <br /> <br />"Come.” She led me to a waist high table that for some reason I noticed for the first time since coming into the room. How did that get here? I thought. She took my towel away from me and left me standing naked and confused. It's true. I was confused. I couldn't speak Vietnamese, and she couldn't speak English very well. I remembered the two teenagers in Pleiku. The little masseuse laid the towel on the table and patted it, indicating she wanted me to lie down on the table.<br /> <br />Her hands were soft and light as they worked the muscles in my back and legs, working the pleasantly scented oil into my fresh-cleaned skin. I decided to allow her to do her thing and began to relax. I remembered that I had only three weeks to go before my R & R came up and I would be in Hawaii with Gwen. The girl’s small hands worked my stiff neck muscles and than down to my backside. She took each toe and rubbed them softly, massaged the bottom of my feet and worked her way up to my inner thigh. Then she tapped my side and turned me over. There I was, at half-mast and wondering what next.<br /> <br />"Ho! Ho!" She said. "You say good morning." She moved her hand along my thigh. "I give you special massage, you tip five dollars." She told me.<br /> <br />"No, I no tip,” I said.<br /> <br />"I do for three," She held her hands out in a pleading manner.<br /> <br />"No, I don't need it today." Who was I trying to convince?<br /> <br />Then she said, "You want more, special?”<br /> <br />I was afraid to ask what that might be. "No, no, just massage." I tried to say.<br /> <br />I believe she got the message. The flag went down and she handed me a dry towel and went out the back door. I got dressed, feeling good about several things. I was clean, I was relaxed and I had no guilt. Well, not as much guilt as I could have had.<br /> <br />I went out to the reception area, a little fearful that a GI might see the cross on my uniform. Hugh came out right after me. I looked at my watch. "Thirty minutes." I said as I pointed to a sign that advertised one-hour massage. Hugh started to complain to the man of the house. He smiled and shrugged his shoulder. Hugh leaned on the desk and looked him in the eye and said, "We should get a refund. We didn't get a whole hour. You owe us thirty minutes," Hugh argued.<br /> <br />The man shrugged again, reached in the drawer and handed us printed card that said, "Next massage half price." We both began to laugh and walked out. I never asked Hugh if he got the special and he never asked me if I gave in and got the special. All I could think about on our trip home was how anxious I was getting to get through the next three weeks so I could take my R & R.<br /> <br />As I keep saying, “Women are the war within man. Especially when man is at war.” One way that the Army attempted to negate the women war within men at war was the concept of R&R, rest and relaxation. It was good for the grunts and it was great for this chaplain. Rest and relaxation in the midst of war. What a concept! "America,” what a country! I wonder if the United States would have been victorious in WWI and WWII if it allowed the men to stop fighting for a week and go off to a romantic island with their spouses or with their significant others.<br /> <br />Women followed men in other wars and waited behind the lines or around the campfires to provide comfort for the soldiers. In Vietnam the men had excused absences to go to their women.<br /> <br />I chose to go to Hawaii where I planned to spend five loving days on R & R with my wife. It was the hope and the plan of that meeting that kept my morale up and my libido in check.<br /> <br />The chaplains in Hawaii were in charge of setting up the program for mates to meet. We had a plush suite on the beach at a reduced cost. Planned tours were available for those who wanted to go on them, but only the waiting wives attended them before their warriors arrived on the island.<br /> <br />Sex was implied in the programming for the week. When the wives’ husbands got off the plane from Vietnam, there was one place they wanted to go, a wonderful motel on the beach.<br /> <br />However, not all R & R's are successful. Every month or two I heard of GI's being stood up when they arrived in Hawaii. It seemed to me a new form of a Dear John letter. It was a Dear-John-I'm-sorry-but-I-just-couldn't-make-it-to-Hawaii, enclosed-is-your-ring. Have a nice war. Personal relationships cannot always be put on hold and even in the middle of a tour of war; a soldier fights a war on two battlefields simultaneously, in Vietnam and Home.<br /> <br />Sorry for the rambling letter. A woman in a war zone is an important combat factor. Men are often battling both war and women. The human urges of men and their moral duty are fighting battles that they don't always understand.<br /> <br />Jim, keep me in your prayers.<br /><br />Sincerely,<br /><br />Don<br /></span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/P1sQK4088TI" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com0http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/08/women-war-within-man-part-2.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-6127848192210655792008-08-16T16:36:00.000-05:002008-08-16T16:40:37.022-05:00THE WOMEN: The War Within The Man - Part 1<b><i>(This letter has been edited to include later experiences I had with women while I was in Vietnam and how they affected the men and women fighting the war. This is an attempt to pull thoughts and experiences together without regard to dates.)</b></i><br /><br /><div align="RIGHT">Monday, February 23, 1970</div>Dear Chaplain Miller, <br /><br /><span class="dropcap">I</span> have been in country for a month now. I have seen action, and I have slept in a bunker on a firebase. I have had religious services in the jungle, I have flown in helicopters, I have seen sniper fire, I've tasted new wine, and I've seen dead enemies and dead friends. Most of my association has been with men, boys who had to grow up and become men in order to survive. However, as has been true since Adam and Eve in the garden, women play an important part in man’s actions. Women can be a war within the man.<br /><span id="fullpost"><br />I read of wars and see movies about wars and there is often only a passing view of the problem of sex in a war. Women are either depicted as playing a large part or a passive roll in conflict with countries at war. My experience in Vietnam was limited when it came to women in war. Women were the subjects of GI conversations and thoughts. However, most of the thoughts were internal and the conversations were couched in four letter words that debased the act of love. When I hear a grunt, a sergeant, or an officer talk about "This f###ing war,” I hear them saying they've been screwed. There is no love involved in the act they are talking about. I don’t even see an image of women in their language.<br /> <br />Whether spoken or not, women are, at times, a war within the soldier. Since I have no way of understanding the inner thoughts of the women soldiers nor can I speak to their experience in a war zone as a fighting person, I venture to guess that men might be the war within the women as well. I will not attempt to speak for the females in the military. I leave that to future writers and historians. I want to share with you my limited experience, with the women I happened meet on my journey in blind faith.<br /> <br />Dave and I made it home from Qui Nhon without any event worth writing about. When I arrived in camp, I got word that I was wanted out on the firebase. I figured the CO wanted a report on the wounded, so made arrangements to get out to the base as soon as possible. I was fortunate to catch a re-supply bird quickly and reported to the TOC and to Lieutenant Colonel Sterling.<br /> <br />Indeed the CO was concerned about the wounded. He had been writing letters to their families and wanted the latest information. I gave him my report and he took some notes.<br /> <br />I then told him the Division Chaplain told me that the Commanding General wanted the Division Chaplains to conduct Character Guidance classes not only at base camp, but also on the firebase as well. I told the CO that I didn't think much of the idea of gathering the men on a firebase to a mandatory class of race relations, drugs, sex, and such.<br /> <br />His comment gave me the answer I was looking for. "Damn it, Chaplain, every time you talk to a troop out here, it had better be character guidance."<br /> <br />"Thank you, sir," I said.<br /> <br />Then after a moment of thought, he offered a compromise. "Maybe you better get some classes together for the units back at Radcliff."<br /> <br />"Good idea, sir," I said.<br /> <br />"By the way, Chaplain,” asked the CO, "how often do you plan to bring services to the guys in the bush?'<br /> <br />"As often as I can, sir. It gets difficult sometimes for me to get on a supply chopper.” <br /> <br />"I can fix that. I'll see that you get out on the supply runs. That would be about every third day or so, depending on the weather." <br /> <br />"Thank you, sir. The men look forward to the service, especially in the bush. I like going out there. It makes me feel like I'm doing what I came to Vietnam to do."<br /> <br />"That you are, Chaplain, that you are."<br /> <br />Out on a mission in the bush, A-Company broke through on the radio. "In coming, in coming."<br /> <br />Sterling shouted out, "Coordinates! Get the damn coordinates!”<br /> <br />The XO was on the horn. "Artillery ready! Pop smoke when ready!"<br /> <br />"Alert mortars!” commanded Sterling. "What's happening out there? How many? Any hits? Get me in contact with the CO," he continued to yell.<br /> <br />"Yes, sir!" replied the S-4, Sp. 5 Dausset. “He just got on the horn.”<br /> <br />"No sweat" said the RTO. "Only one sniper, no hits, I sent out a squad to flush the bastard out. Over."<br /> <br />"Good job," said Sterling. “Keep us informed."<br /> <br />The commotion died down and the TOC became quiet and normal. "Sir, is there anything else you need from me? I’m going to have service in ten minutes on the base,” I said.<br /> <br />Smiling, he asked, "Damn, is it Sunday all ready? No, go on ahead. I have nothing at this time - except to be ready to move to a new firebase this week. Just as things get hot, it seems we are ordered to move,” said the CO.<br /> <br />"Sir, speaking of moving. I need to go to Pleiku to Camp Anarie to pick up some Chaplain's equipment that was left there when the Battalion moved to An Khe. I'm not sure what it might be, but the Brigade Chaplain asked me to pick it up if possible."<br /> <br />"Go right ahead. Be careful. Highway nineteen can be tricky through the mountains. You can go tomorrow; it will be day or two before the new firebase will be open. We’re all headed back to base camp tomorrow or the day after. Have a good service, Chaplain. One of these days I'll attend." <br /> <br />"You're always welcome, sir," I said as I went to the door.<br /> <br />As I was about to leave, he stopped me and asked, "What’s the weather going be like tomorrow?"<br /> <br />Again, I smiled. "I checked with our HQ’s before I came out and they said, "Same-o, same-o."”<br /> <br />"Good," said the commander.<br /> <br />By now, my friend Jim, you may be wondering what all this has to do with women in the war. Well, my little experience in Pleiku when I got there the next day is an interesting adventure and story that speaks to my naiveté and my lack of experience with women in a time and place of war.<br /></span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/4IQ8jc67Zwk" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com0http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/08/women-war-within-man-part-1.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-69622063690484914232008-08-13T12:49:00.000-05:002008-08-13T12:54:37.582-05:00THE CHILDREN: The True Casualties Of War<div align="RIGHT">February 20, 1970</div>Dear Chaplain Miller, <br /><br /><span class="dropcap">D</span>ave came by the BAQ around 1030 hours. I met him out front and we headed on our journey home. Home. That's a strange thing to be calling a tent with floor made of wooden pallets in the middle of a battalion campsite. This place we call home is in a strange country with even stranger sounding names for its near-by towns. Home should be a place where families live and children play. <br /><span id="fullpost"><br />The home to which Dave and I were heading had children called soldiers, grunts, bushmen, troops, brothers, blacks, and honkies. Parents were assigned and called officers, lifers, the man, Top, big daddy and high higher, as well as other names that I’ll spare you from hearing in the name of decency.<br /> <br />The women at home were mostly nurses in military uniforms like ours. Donut Dollies who were USO workers attempted to give refreshment and entertainment. There were also some in our town that were hussies of the neighborhood. The boom boom girls that sold their wares and sometimes were smuggled into the perimeter bunkers. "Home is the place that when you get there, they have to take you in," according to Robert Frost's poem, “The Death of the Hired Man.” We headed up highway nineteen to Camp Radcliff where they had to take us in. So I guess we were going home.<br /> <br />As I was getting ready to enter the jeep, I told Dave that I was going to drive back. "Ok,” he said, "Any reason why?"<br /> <br />"Well,” I answered, "I was talking to a Lieutenant Colonel last night and he told me that I should drive, because the VC know that officers sit on the right front seat of a vehicle and they like to shoot at rank."<br /> <br />Dave had a stunned look his face. He had no idea I was just kidding. But Dave was a smart assistant and quick on his feet and he replied in a flash, "Then I'll ride in the back."<br /> <br />I laughed and said, “I'm just kidding." I reached over and took his M16 and climbed into the passenger side of the jeep, put the weapon across my knees and said, "Take me home, James."<br /> <br />"Right, massah,” he replied as he pulled out on the road filled with buses, bicycles, pullcarts, and motorbikes all stacked with people of all sizes and shapes.<br /> <br />As we drove through the little business area of Qui Nhon, the children were out on both sides of the road, begging. I was reminded of my bus ride from the airport to the Beinhoa's Reception Company when I first arrived in Vietnam. Dave didn't slow down. He had heard of the war stories about some of these little tykes, stealing gas cans off of moving jeeps and other tactical vehicles if they went too slow through the city streets. Children indeed were involved in the war. Horror stories about them dropping hand grenades into passing American vehicles were more than rumors.<br /> <br /><b><i>What follows is an addition to this letter to Jim when I was doing some editing as I prepared my manuscript for my editor in my hope of publication.</b></i><br /> <br />I had the following experience three months before my tour in Nam would be over. It happened on one of my visits to Qui Nhon Nhon. I had my wristwatch stolen off my wrist when my jeep was stopped in traffic. I was sitting in the backseat of the jeep. Two other chaplains and the driver were riding with me. We had been to Chaplains training conference at MACV and we were heading back to the BOQ. There was an accident in the middle of the road. Traffic came to a dead stop and crowds of people were milling around, children begging for whatever they could get. Suddenly, a small, thin brown hand reached through the back canvas flap on the right side of the jeep. <br /><br />I wore my watch on the right wrist because I was left-handed. In a flash, he snapped the band and snatched the watch off of me and took off in a run. I jumped over the front seat and out of the jeep, cutting my leg in the act. I chased him through the myriad of little businesses along the street. Jumping over vendors selling chickens, charcoal for cooking pots, homemade beads and woven rugs. I thought I could catch him. I didn't think about what I was doing. I was just angry. <br /><br />We ran down narrow walkways where women were fixing meals on the sidewalks. I tried to jump over them, stepping on food, plates and teapots. I just about got my hand on this munchkin. It looked like he had come to a dead end. Then he squeezed through a crack in a wall at the end of the corridor and vanished. I couldn't fit through his escape crack in the wall and by then I began to fear for where I found myself.<br /> <br />I turned away, mumbling under my breath. Breathing hard, I began to realize that I was in a "no man's land," out of sight of my fellow chaplains and to them, out of my mind. They stayed with the jeep. I made my way back to where they parked, looking over my shoulders and to my side, trying to be as vigilant as possible. All I could think of was how stupid I was to venture out into the population without any protection and lacking any good sense. I was lucky. I only lost a watch and cut my leg, I still had my life.<br /> <br />Three chaplains begin to preach to me about impulsive actions that could destroy me. Together all three began to rib me about applying for a Purple Heart medal for being wounded in action. I never applied for the medal. I was too embarrassed. <br /><br />As we headed back to the BOQ and I was wiping the blood from my leg, I couldn't help but think what a fool I was. I was lucky only my leg was bleeding. Here I had been in the country for over six months and still acted like an idiot and forgot were I was and what I was doing here. I was in Vietnam because soldiers were here, not because I had to run down a "steely boy,” who was only trying to provide something to sell so he could buy something to eat.<br /> <br />Our jeep made it back through An Khe pass, through the little village of AnTuc with an orphanage filled with children, victims of the war. In the months ahead, Dave and I would be making weekly trips to the orphanage to bring candy, excess C-rations, and slop from the mess hall for the pigs they raised.<br /> <br />My contact with the director, a Catholic Priest, Father Frances, was both a challenge and a delight. He wore a black gown that touched the ground; a large cross hung around his neck and hit him in the middle of his thin chest. He wore a black hat and had a short, graying beard. He was over sixty years old. He had an elongated face with deep wrinkles that gave his beard dark shadows to match the dark bags under his eyes. He was a dedicated man of God who was not seeking fame but seeking to maintain and run his orphanage and care for his twenty or so orphans of various ages and sizes and sexes. <br /><br />My experience and association with Father Frances and especially a little black haired girl with dark brown eyes, named Kim, was one of the grand experiences of my stay in the Central Highlands. Whenever I see the word orphanage or I have a slight flashback to Vietnam, I see her shy smile and feel her tender touch when she would take hold of my finger as I walked with her around the campus. It was a sweet moment in a senseless war.<br /> <br />Father Frances had lived for forty years in South Vietnam. He had lived through the French and Vietnamese wars and the Japanese in WWII. He had seen political turmoil over and over again. His major complaint was that it was always the children who suffered and were the forgotten victims of any war and corrupt government leaders. I remember when he told me about his experience with government and politics, he put out both hands, palms up, hunched his shoulders and in broken English said, "No change."<br /> <br />The Priest could not speak English; he was from a French order of priests that had been in Vietnam from the days when the French controlled the country. It was always an interesting trip to the orphanage and school. Dave and I both attempted to communicate as best we could. Several of the teenage children interpreted for us.<br /> <br />I would load up the jeep with discarded C-rations that the troops dropped by my tent every week. There were cans of peanut butter, jelly, ham, cookies and other foods that the troops didn't use. The Battalion mess would load down my trailer with two or three fifty-gallon containers of slop held over from the mess. When Dave and I would pull up into the school grounds, the children would gather around. <br /><br />One beautiful, dark-haired little six-year-old, Kim, would come up and take my hand. I fell in love with her. I remember writing my wife and suggesting that I might bring home a surprise. However, the law of the land made it impossible for any American to adopt a child during the war. The priest told me that in order to adopt a child, I would have to get permission from any living relative of Kim's. He then said, "Impossible. Kim's family was lost. Some were dead and others were missing." He had one of the older girls interpret for me, saying, "The last time I heard from her mother, she was working in Saigon as a prostitute.”<br /> <br />I commented, "That's a shame."<br /> <br />The priest shook his head and said, "It is no shame, and it is a way of life these days."<br /> <br />These children of the orphanage never begged. They waited patiently for the boxes of C rations to be unloaded and the older boys, eight or nine years old, took the barrels of slop off the trailer. <br /> <br />The priest invited Dave and I into his quarters and offered us a glass of his special French wine. It tasted awful but Dave and I smacked our lips and thanked him for his graciousness. When we got back to the jeep, everything was always in excellent order. The jeep was washed and the barrels were scrubbed and clean enough to eat out of them. Only after we were ready to leave did the priest offer any candy to the children. It was always a disciplined ritual to see them take their treat in such a respectful manner.<br /> <br />On one of the visits we were invited into the school for a special activity that the children had prepared for Dave and me. They had a musical program in our honor. They sang hymns in Vietnamese, English and French. Four of the older girls were, I would guess, thirteen to sixteen. It is difficult to guess children's ages. They were so small and tiny in stature. They did a pantomime of the Beatles, swinging and dancing and pretending to play guitars. It was a happy day and a reminder of the children's choirs in churches I had pastored back in the world.<br /> <br />While he served us his special wine, I asked the priest why he did not have any teenage boys in the orphanage. I went on to share my observation that most of his children were girls. He responded. "The war they're fighting is a war of boys who hope to be men."<br /> <br />Well, once again I need to close this letter. The orphanage and its memories is a time that refreshes my mind and gives me a partial answer to the question, "Why are we in Vietnam?" It helps me to think that we are helping some of the children find peace.<br /><br />Sincerely,<br /><br />Don<br /></span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/34y_Hyb26i0" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com1http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/08/children-true-casualties-of-war.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-39366409536374005562008-08-11T16:22:00.001-05:002008-08-11T16:31:25.855-05:00THE BEACH: The Place Where Waves Vomit Up The Remains Of War<div align="RIGHT">Tuesday, February 17, 1970</div>Dear Chaplain Miller,<br /><br /><span class="dropcap">I</span> slept well last night. I'm not sure of the reason for my ability to find such rest. It may have been the clean sheets or it may have been the glasses of wine. I woke up around 0700 refreshed and at peace, took another hot shower and went to breakfast. Fried eggs and bacon and white sliced bread toast. Wow, I could get use to this kind of living, if it weren't for the war around me. <br /><span id="fullpost"> <br />I went back to my room and read a little. Picked up a Stars and Strip’s newspaper and just cooled it, until the sun began to rise and fill the Vietnam blue sky with its warm rays. I took the clean white towel that was issued to all guests and headed out to the beach. So Jim, here I am, continuing another chapter in my story of Blind Faith.<br /> <br />I'm lying here in the shade of a large palm tree. The shadow it casts makes my skin look like it is striped. However, the humidity is here but so is rest <br />on a sunny beach after a hectic weekend. It may be hot, it may be humid, but it is safe and not crowded. In fact, Dave and I are the only ones on the beach. I did bring my journal, so while Dave reads his book, I'll share my thoughts. <br /><br />Funny, I remember one summer in St. Petersburg, Florida, when I was in high school, I spent every afternoon on the beach. I worked nights, saving money for my first year in college. What I remember as I lay here on this beach today, so many years later, is a line from song that was on the juke box in the beach cafe that went something like: "I'm reclining especially when the sun is shining. I want to relax down by the tracks, hearing the train go clickety clack." There was no train but I did remember the relaxation in the warm sunshine as I enjoyed the soft sand and my worry free moments as a teenager.<br /><br />The Asian wind is blowing with a soft coolness from off the waves onto a trash-cluttered beach in this early, cloudless Vietnam morning. The ocean waves are unyielding to the gritty sand. They keep washing up on the shore all sorts of mysterious, miscellaneous, misplaced, mangled and mutilated trash such as a mess of rotten remnants of fishing nets. Nets that once served, I can well imagine, as a source of livelihood for a small sun-baked, leathery, wrinkled, stooped and thin-framed man of the sea, who himself may now be as unusable as those rotten nets. Or he may very well be carrying packs of cargo along the Ho Chi Minh trail for the Vietcong.<br /><br />In this twisted backwash of seaweed, fishing nets and indescribable filth, are odd pieces of twisted, rotten rope that once, perhaps, held proud seaworthy crafts that served as business, home and recreation for an industrious Vietnamese family. Rubber straps of water-beaten thongs, with faded colors of red, yellow, brown, black, blue, green and withering, dirty white are all caught up in this twisted web that the churning sea has macerated and vomited upon the shore. There they remind one of the feet they must have once protected. Small, running feet with skinned knees that are held up twelve inches above dirty toes with ragged nails trimmed by the indifferent manicurists of dust, dirt, sand rocks and stubby grass. <br /><br />There are some larger sizes of such rubber thongs half buried in the beach sand, reminding of heavier loads of a mother with a bare-bottomed baby under one arm and a roll of plastic, variegated rugs under the other. The rugs would serve as a mattress for both when the darkness comes. She may be willing to sell her pad to the American Soldier for "two dollars American, cheap." <br /><br />There are still other remnants of more worn and broken sandals lying among the clutter. They may have come from the foot of dead Vietcong, or an ARVEN of the South. Could it be that one of these sandals once belonged to the foot of a motorbike driver who is a "go for-boy" by day and a Sapper by night?<br /><br />Mingled with this turmoil of smelly ocean refuse are broken, torn, almost undetectable pieces of discarded or lost toys. Once designed to bring joy to the <br />young, now they are only obstacles for small crabs and wiggle bugs, and places for ocean flies to find lodging. The world, it would seem, is there in that unmanageable pile of empty beer cans, shreds of sandbags, and faded wasted pieces of cloth, all twisted and tied together by wet seaweed. All of this concoction of pollution seems to me to be symbolic of war.<br /><br />At a distance down the cluttered beach, a tiny figure struggles with a beach-found burden. He looks to be five or six years old. Who can tell? His shirt is too long, button missing, black stringy hair falling over his determined, young, half-slanting black eyes that only see what’s on his mind. His shorts are cut off at the knees, toes digging little notches in the wet cool sand, as he bears his burden. <br /><br />I was thinking to myself, Should I be on guard? Is he going to throw a grenade in my direction? I was told, “Always be alert and trust no one,” it was a mantra given to me by the Green Beret who trained me while I was in Okinawa.<br /><br />The burden of this lad is a blue, used I would guess, light bulb, clenched tightly in one hand and a water-logged piece of drift wood, a two by four over five feet long. It is resting over his thin shoulder and extending over his own bent stature, giving the appearance of a child bearing a cross. As he passes close, he seems to be making a point of not paying attention to Dave and me as we watch him struggle by. <br /><br />He continues to drag his treasure of the sea behind him, holding the light bulb high to keep it from breaking. The end of his wooden burden cuts a groove in wet the sand along the beach, leaving a small trail in his wake that the waves attempt to wash away. I watch as he slowly moves past the half-buried barbed wire divider that separates the American beach from the people's beach like a silent sentry of the nemesis of war.<br /><br />I watch this image of blind faith and his hope for tomorrow's Vietnam as he carries a new brace, a new step, a new rail or wood for a fire to his home so his mother could cook his rice. He has gathered flowers from the sea of thorns to make his mother proud of him, if, in fact he still has a mother. Will she beam for joy at this wooden burden, this prize that is leaving a trail in the sand? <br /><br />See, he is way down the beach now, almost a dot. He has shifted his burden around several times, yet the trail is still being marked in the sand. Only now and then, and all too soon, a reaching wave washes the crooked line away, the mark of a boy and his treasure along the sandy beach. Would that the long trail of war that marks the sands of history be washed away as easily. <br /><br />Those beaches would be cluttered with the sound of laughing children with waves reaching out to wash away the sandcastles that are a joy to remake. Searching along the beach would be for seashells to collect like a bunch of flowers to bring home to a smiling mother. A little fellow playing on this beach would have determined eyes as he watched the gulls soar freely and with peaceful ease. <br /><br />The beach would be a stretch of open space where his little legs could run their fastest. That barbed wire would never mar the open space where little toes can freely leave prints in the cool wet sand of happier times.<br /><br />Well, Jim, that’s about it for now. I wouldn’t try to swim in this water but it has been relaxing to lie here and enjoy a moment of silence before I return to the war. <br /><br />Sincerely,<br /><br />Don<br /></span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/w87g1_TLLCc" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com0http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/08/beach-place-where-waves-vomit-up.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-51527666135712755032008-08-08T15:13:00.000-05:002008-08-08T15:18:12.280-05:00THE HOSPITAL: Where the Wounded Find Rest - Part 2<span class="dropcap">T</span>he double swinging doors to the ER were open. Three tables under bright lights had a patient on each one. The area was buzzing with commotion and activity. I could see only parts of the patients through the staff working on them. The nurses were cutting uniforms off and pulling off boots and letting them drop to the floor.<br /><span id="fullpost"><br />IV's were popping up around each patient like strange antennae. Doctors and nurses were calling out commands while medical aides were running back in forth between the patients, picking up bloody swabs and bandages, bloody boots and pieces of clothing. It looked like the movie MASH, only there was no joking around, no Father Mulcahy in a white collar under his chaplain's uniform.<br /><br />The Catholic chaplain who was standing by me continued observing the action of the staff. He had done his duty when the men were off-loaded at the chopper pad. I don't remember how long I stood there before I spoke.<br /><br />"Hi, Jerry," I said to the priest. "Looks like a busy afternoon."<br /><br />"Welcome, Don. It never is slow here. They're either coming or going."<br /><br />"I know,” I said. “We sent a bus load down to you on Sunday."<br /><br />"You were at the firebase that got overrun?” Jerry asked.<br /><br />"I was on the firebase, but I wouldn't call it being overrun. It was exciting. It was the first time I slept on a firebase since being in the country," I told him.<br /><br />Jerry changed the subject. "My assistant is in the office. He has the room numbers of your men. He told me to tell Dave to stop by when you got here."<br /><br />"I told Dave to hang out for a while at your office. I'll go on up and see my men and check out with you before I go to MACV." <br /><br />"By the way, two of your men were air-vacced to Japan this morning,” said the Chaplain.<br /><br />"Thanks." <br /><br />I went up and got the room numbers and visited the troops. They were interested in what happened after they were dusted off and where they would be transferred to, and what they were going to have for dinner. Their spirits were high. After all, they were going home and none of them were wounded too severely, but just enough to make it back to the world or to Japan.<br /><br />I stopped by the Chaplain’s office as I was leaving, picked up Dave and headed to MACV for the night. Dave dropped me off. We agreed to meet on the beach around 0930 the next morning and then head back to An Khe after lunch. I checked into the BOQ and was assigned a small room with clean sheets. Down the hall was a hot shower and flush toilets. What a wonderful pause of refreshment to have indoor facilities.<br /><br />That night after a long hot shower, I went to the officer’s club for a steak dinner and a poor floorshow of some Vietnamese girls dancing and singing to Beatles’ songs. I met a Lieutenant Colonel Al McKittric who was in Qui Nhon to inspect MACV. He was with the Inspector General's office in Saigon. <br /><br />We hit it off from the start. No doubt both of us needed companionship and conversation. We drank a bottle of dry red wine and commiserated with each other about the state of the war and the politics of Vietnam. He knew a great deal more than I did about how the U.S. got involved with South Vietnam. I really was naive about the war and how our government got involved.<br /><br />Jim, when I joined the Army in ‘66, I believed that America was fighting to save Vietnam from the Communist Red menace. I believed that Russia was attempting to take over the world and our army was in Vietnam to stop their aggression. <br /><br />I mentioned to Al that my SGM blamed the Navy and their screw-up at Tonkin for our becoming involved in the war. He laughed. "Sounds like an Army Sergeant. Tonkin did give President Johnson the excuse he was looking for to up the ante and to draft more troops. But this mess started back in the Roosevelt and Truman administrations." <br /><br />I gave him a look that said, "Go on, I'm listening."<br /><br />He continued talking, "Roosevelt said toward the end of WWII that he favored nationalistic self-determination in all the European colonial areas. He stressed international postwar peace that would depend on America's global leadership. However, he didn't reach out to the nations like Vietnam and assist them in their quest for independence." <br /><br />He went on to say, “Ho Chi Minh was a communist, but I don't believe he was necessarily in bed with Russia at that time. In fact, in a speech on independence to his people and in his quest for Vietnam independence, Ho used a well-known American phrase." <br /><br />Al stopped, took a sip of wine. "Do you know what the phrase was?" <br /><br />Smiling, I said, "No, but I bet you're going to tell me." <br /><br />Al looked right at me and began to speak again. "We hold that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, among them life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." He went on to say, "If Roosevelt had encouraged Ho at that time, no telling what might have happened and how the New World Order would have fallen out. As you know, Roosevelt, like America always does, gave in to the French and let Ho go off on his own to seek assistance from his old Russian friends." He paused before continuing.<br /><br />“Ho was really active in Vietnam in 1945. He set up a provisional government after Japan surrendered and later declared the independence of Vietnam. The situation was so bad that the British forces had to come to Saigon to return authority to the French. That's when LT. Col. Peter Dewey got it. He was the first American to die over this country. The Vietnamese thought he was a French soldier and shot up his jeep, killing him." He stopped speaking, took another sip of wine, and went on telling his story.<br /><br />"Truman was no better in his attitude toward Ho Chi Minh and Vietnam then Roosevelt," Al continued. "Truman was satisfied to let France and Vietnam solve their own problems at first but later sided with the French. In 1950, his administration ended up supporting the French in their struggle to maintain control over Vietnam and Indochina by having the United States grant them three billion dollars. Our country was so fearful of the Russian brand of communism that we failed to look into Ho Chi Minh’s idea of communism. I think if we had, we might not be here today."<br /><br />I tried to give some input to his information by suggesting that we were involved with Korea at the time of Truman and really didn't have any idea that Vietnam would be a serious factor in our life. Al agreed, but went on with his history lesson.<br /><br />"The French had a battle on their hands. I think they, like us, underestimated Ho’s ability to lead his people and underestimated the ability of the Vietnamese to fight. I know you heard about the French losing the battle at Dienbienphu; I think that was around 1954." <br /><br />I chimed in, "I was a freshmen in high school, wearing white buck shoes."<br /><br />Al smiled. "I remember that, too. I also remember Eisenhower talking about the Domino Theory after the French were defeated. You know, all the small nations were standing in a line across the world like dominos and when one falls to the communists, there is a chain reaction and all other countries began to tumble one at a time. America was coming off the McCarthy hearings and still had the fear of a communist under every bush. So Ike continued to provide aid to the French, but he did have the balls to refuse to send in any U.S. troops."<br /><br />I said, "What I remember most about Eisenhower, was the slogan, I like Ike."<br /><br />Al looked at me and said, "Where in the hell did you go to school?”<br /><br />I answered, "I was into running track, trying to make out with girls, laying on the beach all afternoon and planning to go to college. I wasn't much of a student. In fact, I remember telling my counselor at the time that I had a scholarship to a Baptist college to run track but was afraid of more school. I told her I wanted to join the Navy. She suggested that I try college and if I failed, it would only be one year and then I could join the Navy.”<br /><br />"You remember Kennedy, don't you?” asked Al, as he took a long drink of wine. He reached over with the bottle and poured me another glassful. "I know you’re Baptist, but what the hell are you doing in Vietnam? I won't tell on you."<br /><br />"Thanks” I said. “And I do remember Kennedy. I was in seminary when he was elected. The big theological debate at that time was if he were to become president, would he owe his loyalty to the Pope or to the people of the United States? I do remember somewhere in that time frame, after his election there was some talk that the reason he supported Vietnam was because the government of the South Vietnam was Catholic." I was on a roll now with my bit of history. “And I also remember the Bay of Pigs mess and how Kennedy screwed that invasion up. I remember television, showing pictures of Russian ships bringing missiles to Cuba. In that time frame I believe that James Meredith was enrolled at Old Miss. That was the big news."<br /><br />"Your education was lacking some even if you were in seminary," said Al. "Let me go on and enlighten you so you won't blame the Navy for your being here in Vietnam. You’re right. Kennedy did support Diem. In fact, he sent Green Berets Special Forces into Vietnam as advisors to try and help the South. However the Vietcong defeated the South Vietnamese Army in the battle of Ap Bac. That was a critical battle for the Cong." <br /><br />Al pushed his chair out and crossed his legs to get more comfortable. “You'll remember, Chaplain, things were a mess on the home front. Martin Luther King was doing battle in the South with you bigots." He paused and smiled. "Well, with some of the bigots. Then Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas. Buddhists were burning themselves in the streets of Saigon and finally, President Diem and his brother were murdered, with America's blessing." Al shook his head as if in disbelief. “I'm sure, if it was not for American help that General Nguyen Khanah would not have seized power in Saigon."<br /><br />Al went on talking, “By then, President Johnson was in full command and after Tonkin's fiasco in ’64, he began to send in mega-troops. We bombed the hell out of the Vietcong in the north for three years; as Commander-in-Chief, he was determined to whip out the North Vietnamese communist insurgent. By 1966, there were over 200,000 troops fighting in South Vietnam."<br /><br />I reminded him about the students and their protests. Al jumped in and pointed out that there were others. He said, “Don’t forget the Veterans and Martin Luther King. He began to call for Johnson to end the war and bring the boys home. All that was too much for Johnson. He announced in March of ’68 that he was through. He wasn't going to run for the presidency again."<br /><br />"I remember that, too,” I said with a big simile. In 1966, I was one of the 200,000 that made it possible for him to send more troops to Vietnam. I was pastor of a church in Fresno. My young men in the congregation were being drafted and they had to go, so I joined. Now here I am getting a great a history lesson on why I'm in Vietnam."<br /><br />"Good, you need it," said Al with a laugh. He looked at his watch. "It’s getting late, Chap, and I have to get up early tomorrow.” One last thought for the night. I think Nixon is going to try and call the troops back home in a couple of years. He's going to try to flex his military might and then pull out with some kind of treaty. I personally don't think it will work. We may get home some day, but when we do, we won't be called winners. Chaplain, I enjoyed talking with you tonight. I bet you'll sleep well after all that wine, I know I will. If I don't see you again, cover your ass and look out for Charley."<br /><br />"Thanks, Al. To say the least, tonight was the best briefing I've had since being in the Army. Take care and God bless.”<br /><br />I wished I could have listened to him longer, but I was dead tired, so I joyously tucked myself into my clean white cool sheets and dreamed of being home in my golden adult playpen.<br /><br />Sincerely,<br /><br />Don</span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/Nrnl-l88h3w" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com0http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/08/hospital-where-wounded-find-rest-part-2.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-25740571209308910302008-08-06T14:03:00.002-05:002008-08-06T14:10:06.775-05:00THE HOSPITAL: Where the Wounded Find Rest - Part 1<div align="right">February 16, 1970</div>Dear Chaplain Miller, <br /><br /><span class="dropcap">I</span> will start this memory from my lift-off from firebase Warrior after my valentine experience with the VC. I was happy to be going back to base camp and even happier with the CO’s order to go to the hospital in Qui Nhon to check on our wounded that were medivacced to the 85th Evacuation Hospital. As the chopper left the firebase, the door gunner handed me a pair of earplugs and pantomimed that I should place them in my ears. I took his suggestion and placed one tight in each ear. It was one of the better helpful hints I received from the experienced GI’s while in Vietnam. The loud chopper noise became a drone sound and soon I drifted off and fell into a sound sleep. I took no time for sightseeing on my way back. I was exhausted, more than I knew. When the chopper set down at the Golf Course, I jumped off, waved goodbye to the pilot and gave a thumbs-up thank you.<br /><span id="fullpost"><br />Dave, my Chaplain's assistant, was there to meet me with the jeep. The CO had radioed HQs and told him I was on the way. Dave was a fifth grade school teacher that was drafted when he didn't find a teaching job in New Jersey. It was wonderful to have such talented and educated assistants handling things in the rear when I went to the field. On the drive back to my hooch, Dave told me that HQ told him he had to drive me to the hospital tomorrow because the chopper would not be available.<br /><br />Dave was a little apprehensive about driving down Highway Nineteen. That was the main artery from Pleiku through An Khe to Qui Nhon. We sometimes got reports about ambushes along the road by the VC. I had gone down to Qui Nhon with another chaplain and it was just an interesting drive for me. There were rice paddies and charcoal shops along the highway. They burned wood and sold the charcoal remains as firewood for cooking. I saw several Buddhist Pagodas but we did not stop to visit any of them. I told Dave not to worry, that we would be just fine. After all, we were doing the Lord’s work. His comment to me was, “That’s what all martyrs said just before they were burned at the stake.”<br /><br />I had Dave get our HQs to set up a place for us to stay with the Military Assistance Command Vietnam or MACV. We would spend the night there. The Army, still being the Army even in wartime, Dave would have to stay with the enlisted men and I would stay in the BOQ (Bachelor Officer Quarters). I thought when I heard this that sometime in the field, officers can stay in the bunker of enlisted men, like Speedy. However, back in base camps army tradition stayed the same.<br /><br />I had no problem sleeping when I got to bed after making plans for our trip. My prayers that night were those of thanksgiving for seeing me through the weekend. My first visit to a firebase was to me a memorial of faith and trust. I was needed and I was there. That was why I came to Vietnam. <br /><br />The next morning I met Dave at the mess hall. He told me there was a message from the Brigade chaplain's office for me at HQ. After I ate, I went by HQ. The Brigade Chaplain wanted me to hold a service at one of the units that was about to move out into the bush. I called him and told him I would catch the unit for a service on my way out and that I was headed to Qui Nhon Nhon hospital.<br /><br />“Good,” he said, “I'll send my assistant over with the names of the troops from Division that are in the hospital, and you can see them as well."<br /><br />Dave had the jeep ready to go. We put on our flack jackets and helmets. Dave checked his M16 to make sure he had several clips of ammo to take along with us. He was still a little nervous about the trip. After we went over to the unit and I had a little service for them, we pulled out of An Kha and onto the highway. I began to think about the dust-off chopper I saw the morning of the attack and how wonderful their response time was during the firefight. <br /><br />Efficient and quick medical treatment saved many American lives during the war. When a troop was wounded in the bush or on a firebase, the dust-off choppers were there quickly and efficiently. <br /><br />The wounded were usually triaged on the spot by a doctor, nurse, or medic whichever was most available. When injuries were serious enough, the men were evacuated to hospitals like the 85th in Qui Nhon, treated there and, if necessary, sent along to larger better hospital facilities out of the country. <br /><br />The MASH unit like the one in An Kha would also take those who were not serious but needed fast treatment and then moved on to larger medical unit. Some troops in An Kha were being treated for other war-related diseases as well as small wounds and illness. There were tropical fevers, parasitic diseases and the most critical, malaria. Some were overdosed on drugs and alcohol. <br /><br />All troops, including officers, were subject to urinary testing to make sure we were using our malaria pills and were not on other drugs. The war on drugs was being fought in Vietnam in many respects as it was being fought in the real world. <br /><br />It was at An Kha MASH unit that I saw my first prisoner of war being treated. There was a ward tent set off by itself where prisoners were treated. When I walked through the ward, I saw several patients who were anxious and fearful. In the doctors’ lounge I heard one Doc say to another, "I did a good repair job on that gook, but I should have split him from his neck to his pecker."<br /><br />It was over a two-hour ride to Qui Nhon. As we drove along the highway, my mind began remembering as it often did, of this dream that I only seemed to be a part of. I remembered when I was stationed in Okinawa a year ago. The various units there took turns visiting the causalities from Vietnam that were sent to Camp Kuhe Hospital.<br /><br />When my turn came to visit the hospital, I was always surprised to see the high morale of those that had been shot and blown up in Vietnam. They were mostly Marines who were sent to Kuhe Hospital in Okinawa. The Army wounded were usually sent to Japan.<br /><br />In my dream in the jeep, I remembered the Christmas I spent alone in Okinawa. Housing was a problem and I had been there seven months without my family. On Christmas Eve, I shined up my cross, put on my dress uniform and went off to see the suffering in the hospital. I didn't feel very cheerful and was fighting homesickness. I felt like an abandoned child from a sad Christmas story. Here I was, six feet tall, thirty-three years old but inside I was just over four feet tall, ten years old and all alone at Christmas, feeling sorry for myself. However, I was doing my duty and going to visit the wounded troops in the hospital. <br /><br />I remembered walking in the front door of the hospital. Troops were everywhere. Some of the patients were watching Armed Forces Television. Others were playing cards, listening to Christmas music, joking around and laughing aloud. They greeted me with, "Hi Chap. Merry Christmas. How you doing? You going to have dinner with us? We’re having turkey and ham and all the fixings.” I wasn't ready for such cheer. I felt blue and alone. I remember thinking, I'm not staying down here, I'm going up to the orthopedic ward where broken-boned bodies and lame soldiers were stuck in their beds and confined to their ward on this humid, hot Christmas.<br /><br />I got off the elevator on the orthopedic ward. Decorations were everywhere, hanging from the ceiling, and pasted on the walls. It seemed that every bed had wreaths. A large, fully decorated Christmas tree stood in the recreation room, and everyone that could, had gotten up and were waiting, they told me, for Santa Claus to arrive.<br /><br />The USO and Donut Dolly's had guests visiting from Hollywood, California. Joey Bishop, the comedian, and three very attractive scantily dressed young ladies, who were flirting with the patients, leading them in singing carols, having their pictures taken, were celebrating life. After all, they were only wounded. Joey came up to me and put his arms around my neck and the next thing I knew, I had my picture taken with a Jewish celebrity on Christmas Day, waiting for Santa Claus to arrive on a ward full of wounded Vietnam soldiers.<br /><br />From down the hall came the sound of jingling bells. We heard a shout that Santa was on his way. <br /><br />Everyone got quiet, waiting expectantly for Santa to come through the door. The door swung open, and there stood a large, six foot seven Santa. His eyes were peering out of a large head-cast. There was an opening for his ears and nose and a wider one for his mouth. His arms were in a cast with braces holding them out like wings at half-mast. His upper body was in a cast down to his waist. Both of his legs were bound with surgical elastic tape. His feet and hands were the only indication that there was a man inside the massive shell. On the cast covering his head, sat a bright red Santa cap with its fluffy tassel hanging down to his neck. The cap had the words “Merry Christmas” printed in white letters. As he entered the ward, with his mini-skirted elves carrying bundles of gifts, he muffled out as loudly as he could, “HO! HO! HO! Merry Christmas."<br /><br />Santa's real name was Jerry. He had been on the receiving end of a Vietcong rocket attack. He had a fractured skull. His shoulders and arms were broken. His ribs were broken and his legs full of shrapnel. The other patients nicknamed him "The Mummy." He did look like he had come out of an Egyptian tomb. I stood there in amazement along with Joey Bishop and his three attractive ladies. Here was Santa, bringing joy and happiness to his fellow wounded patients. The ward was full of Christmas spirit and joy. Patients were greeting visitors with smiles and those who could, were shaking hands. The lucky patients received a kiss from the ladies. The ladies then planted lipstick kisses all over the face cast of Santa.<br /><br />Dave woke me up, "Chaplain! Hey Chaplain! Look what's up ahead!” There were MP's blocking the road and stopping traffic. We pulled to the side of the road. A very large MP came to my side of the jeep. He saluted, "Sorry to stop you, sir. There was a little skirmish up ahead."<br /><br />"Are you closing the road, sergeant?” I asked.<br /><br />"No, sir. An APC hit a land mine off the side of the road a mile up. There was light arms fire but no one was hurt. There's a Cobra chopper is in the area checking it out. I think every one has cleared out. You can be on your way shortly."<br /><br />Dave looked over at me. He wasn't smiling. "I thought you said the road was safe.”<br /><br />"I didn't say safe, I said nothing will happen to us."<br /><br />Dave smiled. "Yet." That was all he said. <br /><br />We sat there for about ten minutes. Dave didn’t say much; he checked his M-16 and asked me if I had ever shot one. I told him I did once when I had a week of basic training while in Chaplain’s School. All he said, shaking his head in disbelief, was “A week?” <br /><br />The MP motioned us on our way. "Drive carefully, Chaplain, and take care,” he said as we drove by him.<br /><br />I told Dave as we continued down the road that I had made plans for both of us to spend the afternoon on the beach after our hospital visit. He looked at me like I was crazy. "Beach?” he said, like he had never heard of the word.<br /><br />"Right. There’s a great beach near the hospital. I wouldn’t advise going in the water but the sun and sand are great."<br /><br />The rest of the trip was uneventful until we pulled up into the hospital compound. A dust-off helicopter was hovering about to take off. Dave pulled into a parking area and the chopper flew overhead. "Must have brought someone in," I said. “I'll check out the emergency room. You're welcome to come with me, or find yourself a coke or something. I'll meet you back here and we'll go over to MACV." Dave had no intention of going into the emergency room.</span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/dLzLvfnG94s" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com0http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/08/hospital-where-wounded-find-rest-part-1.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-5797488976823235162008-08-04T16:39:00.000-05:002008-08-04T16:43:12.138-05:00THE SAPPERS: Dangerous Visitors in the Night - Part 2<span class="dropcap">I</span> excused myself and made my way back to Stony's bunker. Stony was there with several other fellows. Still excited, they were drinking coffee and talking about the attack.<br /><span id="fullpost"><br />"Want a cup of coffee, Chaplain?”<br /><br />"Sounds good, thanks." I asked a question to no one particular. "Did any of you know the guys that got wounded?"<br /><br />"Most of them were from recon platoon," someone said.<br /><br />"I heard that they got the new Major,” said another.<br /><br />"I know. We came in together yesterday morning. He seemed like a nice guy."<br /><br />"Charley don't know nice,” said one of the fellows.<br /><br />"Chaplain, did you see the bodies of the Dinks, there up at the Artillery area?”<br /><br />"No, I haven't. How about taking me up there?”<br /><br />"Sure thing. Let's go. It's light enough now to take some pictures." <br /><br />I thought to myself, do I really want pictures of anyone dead? Oh, well, I might as well take my camera.<br /><br />It's very difficult to describe what it was like early that morning. I did take pictures, but one of the GI’s told me the PX would refuse to develop them.<br /><br />There were three tiny bodies lying next to each other. They looked like teenagers. They had on black pajamas and sandals made from pieces of tires. Their faces were covered with charcoal making them dark black and they wore black bandanas around their heads.<br /><br />One of the VC was shot in the neck and another in the chest. I could not tell where the other was hit. Jim, it was strange I didn't feel anything. I was sort of numb. I remembered the LRRP’s (Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol) I saw at Radcliff. I didn't feel hate. I felt like this was some kind of nightmare. They had their weapons lying near them. There were two AK47s, a M16, some machetes and satchel charges that looked like they were wrapped in banana leaves. There was an U.S. Army hand grenade as well. <br /><br />One of the sergeants handed me an old fashioned grenade, the kind that the Germans used in WWII. It was shaped like a bottle, made out of wood with a steel bottom and a wooden handle. He had disarmed it earlier. “Why not keep it as souvenir of your first night on a firebase.” He laughed. I thanked him and put it in my chaplain’s kit.<br /><br />The morning light was getting brighter as the smoke and haze had drifted off. I looked around the artillery area. There was a 105 Howitzer; its barrel was peeled back like a banana or a flower that just opened up. It was ripped, from the barrel end right into part of its name, “Blind Faith." <br /><br />The Artillery commander came up to me. "What do you think Chaplain?” <br /><br />"Are you going to move these bodies soon?” <br /><br />"We will just as soon as the chopper gets here. It's on the way," answered the commander.<br /><br />"I would like to hold Sunday worship service in your area if you don't mind?” <br /><br />He put his hand up on the barrel, "Blind Faith,” he said. "A great place to hold church." he said with a smile.<br /><br />I took his picture standing there, holding on to his wounded gun. On my way around the firebase I spoke to several of the troops. They all were thankful it was no worse than it was. When I asked, “How you doing?” <br /><br />They answered, "Fine, thank God."<br /><br />A few asked if I was having a service. Several were writing letters home. There was no horse-playing going on; everyone had a serious attitude that morning. A kind of reverence, as though something holy was going on, could be felt. I can't explain it. No one offered high fives. No peace symbols were made with fingers when the men greeted me. One fellow said, "Good thing you were here, Chaplain, or it would have been worse."<br /><br />He was giving me more credit than I wanted. I came up to Amazing Grace, the second of the three 105 howitzers. Its barrel was also split. Lieutenant Colonel Anderson was sitting on one of the bunkers in the area. "Hi, Chaplain,” he called out.<br /><br />"Some night," I responded. "Glad you’re all right."<br /><br />"Only my career is shot to hell,” he retorted.<br /><br />I didn't respond because I was not sure what he meant. I sat next to him.<br /><br />"A hell of a way to end my tour,” he went on. "I had a good tour, until this f###-up."<br /><br />"I'm not certain I understand what you mean," I said.<br /><br />"Damn, chaplain, I'll be lucky to get a seat on a plane home after this mess. Damn, only one more day and I would have been out of here clean. I can kiss my promotion good-bye. One f### up and I'm dead."<br /><br />I decided that active listening was called for. I nodded my head and he continued to express his grief over letting down his guard for this one night. It didn't matter that no one was killed except the enemy. The attack happened on his watch. His OER (Officer Efficiency Report) would not come up to standard and would reflect the morning raid. The People's Army of Vietnam, the PAVN, had ruined another commander’s career.<br /><br />I can't remember what else was said. I remember walking back with him to the TOC. He checked out what was happening with his soldiers along the way. They all smiled. Some smiled and said, "We busted their ass, sir."<br /><br />He smiled back. "Damn good job, son."<br /><br />"Sir, I'm going to get back to my hooch and prepare for the service. Is there anything I can do for you, Sir?” <br /><br />"Nothing now. I appreciate your listening to me. You'll enjoy working with Sterling. He’s a great guy and will be a great commander to work with." He turned and walked slowly away with his shoulders drooping.<br /><br />I made my way back to Stony’s; I had to get my thoughts together for the morning service.<br /><br />I turned to my Bible and read from Second Timothy four: "I fought the good fight, I kept the faith, I've finished my race." With that verse, I went up to the artillery area where Blind Faith stood wounded. I didn't preach. We had a discussion of our last night's experience, our fears, our hope and God's amazing grace. There before the Blind Faith howitzer, we reminded each other that our faith was not in cold steel but in God's grace. Our faith was not blind for we were saved by the grace of our merciful God.<br /><br />Sunday evening I made my way to Camp Radcliff. The change of command went off without a hitch. Most of the battalion was standing down in place, remaining alert but taking it easy. Lieutenant Colonel Sterling took over the command. After the ceremony he talked to me and asked if I could go to Qui Nhon to check on the nine wounded troops that were dusted off to the hospital. I told him I thought that was a good idea. He said a chopper would pick me up Monday morning at Radcliff. He already called it in.&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><span id="fullpost">"Go back tonight and get ready. My Loach (Light Observation Helicopter) will take you in. I'm coming in Tuesday. I'll see you then. I'm glad you were up here, Chap. The men appreciate your presence." He smiled that little all-telling grin and asked, "What's the weather going to be like tomorrow?”<br /><br />I just returned the smile, saluted and went to gather my chaplain's kit and ruck and headed to the pad to catch a ride back to Radcliff.<br /><br />While I was waiting for the command helicopter that is at ready for the CO at a moment's notice, TOP (Sergeant Major) saw me talking to Stony. He came over to say good-bye and to make sure I'd talked to the CO about going to the hospital.<br />"<br />I see you survived your welcome to Firebase Warrior.”<br /><br />"That was quite a welcome, TOP. You really didn't have to go that far to make me feel welcome. By the way, how are you doing?” I asked.<br /><br />"My head feels as if I was hit by a mortar, but I'll be ok. He was grinning, but his eyes looked bloodshot and his face seemed much older than it had yesterday.<br /><br />He came and sat next to me. "Too bad about the Major. I just got word they air-vacced him to Japan. I believe he's on his way home." <br /><br />"Did you hear about the others?” I asked.<br /><br />"They took them right down to Qui Nhon. No one got off at Radcliff. As far as I know, they are all doing just fine." He stopped talking for a moment, took a deep breath, lit a cigarette and went on to tell me, "We were lucky. Those were VC regulars, part of the People’s Army of Vietnam, or what we call the PAVN.”<br /><br />"TOP, who or what are the PAVN’s?” I asked.<br /><br />"They are regular troops, trained mostly the North, sometimes in China. The little bastards hate Americans as much as they did the French. They hate anyone except for other North Vietnamese." He stopped speaking and took a deep breath. "I take that back." He pulled on the front rim of his helmet. “They don't hate the South Vietnamese, only the rich ones who run the government. They see them as patsies for Europeans, and especially United States." He took a long drag on his cigarette. "In a way, I admire them. They are disciplined, trained and tough as hell. They kicked the sh## out of the French over there at Dein Bien Phu."<br /><br />I remembered seeing a field of white crosses that looked like a small Arlington, when I flew in the area between Pleiku and Radcliff. The pilot had told me it was a French cemetery.<br /><br />"How did we get into this mess if the French lost the war?” I asked. <br /><br />Top went on with his impromptu history lesson. "Truman started helping the French and then subsequent leaders kept adding more and more help. Now, here we are,” he began. <br /><br />“Johnson, he’s the one who really got us involved. He is the one who really got us f###ed up, by putting so many troops in this god-forsaken place that it will be almost impossible to get out. We have another Korea, only worse, right here in Vietnam. <br /><br />I interrupted him for second. "That stuff went on back in the fifties. I was just getting out of high school. I don't remember too much about it. I was disappointed that I missed the Korean War and was worried about girls, track and going to college."<br /><br />"Damn, Chaplain, you wanted to fight in Korea?” <br /><br />I laughed. "I thought I would like that, but now I know I was just a crazy kid."<br /><br />"Let me tell you, Korea was a bitch. This-” overlooking the firebase, he went on saying, -"is no picnic either. I’m afraid we’re going to go home with our tails between our legs." He took off his steel pot and ran his hands through what little hair he had.<br /><br />"I’m sorry. I didn't mean to stop you. You were saying the Sappers came from North Vietnam." <br /><br />"Not all of them. They get some of the village people to join up and fight. They train them well. Those slimy little bastards up at the artillery pit were VC regulars. Those Sappers are like guerrillas. They're trained in using explosives, ambushing and planting booby traps. They go after helicopters, aircraft, howitzers, mortars, and I guess commanders, when they can. They're the Special Forces in the PAVN. They use kids, women, anyone they can. They don't give a sh## about dying. Did you see those satchel charges, made from banana leaves and gunpowder they captured from us?" He asked.<br /><br />That filmier sound of a chopper filled the air. Dust was blowing and pieces of paper and junk swelled everywhere. "See you in base camp,” said TOP. "Tell the guys in the hospital to keep their sh## together for me," he said, as I ran to the chopper.<br /><br />"Will do, TOP, thanks for your help. I couldn't have managed without you." Looking over at Stony who was throwing supplies off the chopper. I yelled, "Stony, thanks for the use of the hooch."<br /><br />"Any time, Chap,” then he saluted at we began to lift off and slide across the abused firebase.<br /><br />Jim, this experience has been something else. What I received the last two days as an introduction to the "Field" in Vietnam, I will remember for the rest of my life. I really thought I would be killed in action when it first burst out. This is going to be a long year, yet I hope it passes quickly. I'm trying to put my thoughts down in a journal and in the letters I'm sending to you. I appreciate the opportunity to let my thoughts fly to you, because of my trust in you and your trust in me. <br /><br />Take care and God bless you and yours. Keep me in your prayers.<br /><br />Sincerely,<br /><br />Don<br /></span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/-u_IUgdeGGk" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com0http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/08/sappers-dangerous-visitors-in-night.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-38419791232336665372008-07-23T21:40:00.001-05:002008-07-23T21:54:14.824-05:00THE SAPPERS: Dangerous Visitors in the Night - Part 1<div align="right">February 14, Sunday afternoon</div>Dear Chaplain Miller, <br /><br /><span class="dropcap">W</span>hat a night-or morning-I had! The war has become real to me. I’ll try to tell you about this happening as best I can.<br /><br />I stretched out on my air mattress in Speedy's bunker after writing a short letter to you describing the going away party for LTC Anderson. I placed my steel pot beside my head. I covered myself with a poncho liner that served as a summer weight blanket.<br /><span id="fullpost"><br />I wondered to myself, “Would rockets be able to penetrate the top of this bunker?” Half dreaming, half-praying, confused about my attitude of this night, I realized that the custom of military protocol called for courtesy good-byes, regardless of the war going on. But then, who knows? So far, so good. Nothing seemed to be happening around the base. I was into my dream when Speedy awakened me.<br /><br />"Sorry, Chaplain. I was playing cards with some guys over at A-company. You doing all right?"<br /><br />"I'm fine, Speedy. Thanks."<br /><br />"Chaplain, I wish you would call me Stony, I like that nickname better than Speedy."<br /><br />"No problem." I said. "Stony, do you have a flash light I can borrow? I have to take a leak." <br /><br />"Here." He handed me a small penlight. “The piss tube over by the dump,” he said as I took the light.<br /><br />I slipped on my pants and boots, not bothering to tie them. Looked at my watch. 0235. I made my way out of the bunker and though the other dark mounds of neighboring bunkers to the piss tube. I stood looking down into the gully that was the firebase dump, there was a slight, pungent odor in the area came from the trash. It was pitch dark, with the exception a glow coming from the TOC. The cool night breeze had become a little chilly.<br /><br />I made my way back into the bunker. Stony was still awake.<br /><br />"That you, chaplain?" he asked.<br /><br />I wondered who else he was expecting. "Yeah," I answered. I thought to myself, should I put my pants and boots on? I saw that Stony kept his boots on.<br /><br />"Do you always sleep in your boots?” I asked.<br /><br />"Most of the time. You never know what's going to happen out here." He answered.<br /><br />So I kept on my pants and boots, but didn't bother to tie them. I crawled back again onto my air mattress. I was almost back into my dream. I could hear Stony snoring very softly.<br /><br />Suddenly the world around us began to explode with vengeful force. Explosions were going off like strings of firecrackers only a hundred of times louder. I jumped up, reached down and tied my boots. My heart started beating so loud it seemed to be shaking the bunker.<br /><br />Stony woke up and was sat up on his edge bunk area. "What in the hell was that?" he yelled as he started to mess around with his M-16. I pulled back the split sandbag sack that served as the bunker door and looked out across the firebase.<br /><br />Blasts of deafening orange explosives shouted out their disruption like thunder and lightening coming up from the earth into the dark moonless night. Our mortar pits were glowing with flaming orange blasts. Flares filled the sky with fiery light. I could see most of the way across the firebase; I heard more explosive blasts coming from the artillery area of Blind Faith. <br /><br />Stony kept saying we were being over-run. Then he started cussing about his M-16. "This damn thing may not work, I haven't cleaned or fired it for months," he said to himself and to me.<br /><br />That's great. Just what a non-combatant officer needs to hear from his only hope of security. "Stay at the door. Don't go out or you'll get yourself shot by one of our men," I yelled at him. I did learn something from the Replacement Company training after all. <br /><br />I heard AK 47 rounds going off and bursts from our own M-16's blasting though the night. I said a prayer. "Lord, take care of my wife and boys and watch over the battalion." I was scared, yet calm. I truly thought we were going to die. Little did I understand or know that the VC were not interested in a chaplain and a pad man when they had targets of a Commander in the TOC, mortar pits and 105 howitzer. <br /><br />The command tactical operations center was as bright as a sunburst. Voices were calling to stay put. The smell of gun smoke filled the chilly air. This was no dream. It was a nightmare.<br /><br />The attack lasted less than fifteen minutes, but to me seemed like an hour. Huey dust-off helicopters with their lights shining were illuminating the chopper pad. I wish there were words to describe the noise that the blades of choppers make. I could see the red crosses painted on the sides. What great response time! <br /><br />A Cobra gun ship circled the area, shooting rockets into the bush. What mortars were not destroyed were still popping flares and explosive rounds into the jungle outside our perimeter. All three 105 howitzers, Amazing Grace, Blind Hope and Blind Faith, were standing silent and mortally wounded. <br /><br />It was a chaotic, frightening, exciting, and fearful experience. When the small arms fire stopped, everything grew quiet except for the noise from the helicopters and mortars. I heard Captain Jones yell, "Chaplain! You're needed at the pad!"<br /><br />I began to make my way to the Pad. The flare lights and the dust off chopper light gave the firebase a strange glow. Troops were moving about, doing their duty, securing the area. As I was making my way between the bunkers and got close to the Pad, I could see the Medics working on wounded GI’s. Our Battalion Surgeon was providing triage. <br /><br />Near the last bunker I stepped on a wounded soldier lying between two bunkers.<br /><br />"Hey" he yelled.<br /><br />"I'm sorry, I didn't see you." I said.<br /><br />"Who are you?" he asked. Then cried out, "I got it in the eyes and can't see." <br /><br />"I'm the chaplain," I said quickly, crouching at his side a placing my hand on his shoulder. "I see the medics have taken care of you." He had a bandage around his eyes.<br /><br />"Will you say a prayer for me, chaplain?"<br /><br />"You bet I will. What’s your name?"<br /><br />"Private Jamison, sir." After a pause he asked, "Are you the Catholic Chaplain?” he asked.<br /><br />"No, I'm Protestant," I answered him.<br /><br />"It doesn't matter, does it, Chaplain? I mean you can pray for me, too." His voice sounded excited. <br /><br />I placed my hand on his forehead above his bandage and prayed, "Lord, bless this young man and see that his eyes receive the proper healing. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit." I made a sign of the cross on his forehead.<br /><br />I looked up and yelled, "Over here. Help me to get this one to the pad!" Some dark figure came over and we got him up to the pad and onto a chopper.<br /><br />I heard a loud voice behind me. It was coming from Randy, the new XO that I flew out to the firebase with earlier. He was yelling at me but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.<br /><br />"Randy, what happened?" I yelled back as I ran to his side. <br /><br />"Welcome to the first of the twelfth. Boom!" He yelled even above the roar of the helicopters.<br /><br />A medic was with him. "The Major has busted ear drums," said the medic. "He can't hear a thing."<br /><br />"Can I do anything?" I asked.<br /><br />"Captain Jones may need some help," answered the medic and pointed toward the pad where they were loading the wounded on the choppers.<br /><br />I ran over to where Jones was leading a fellow who had a bandage around the shoulder. I noticed a dark stain covering most of it. "Here, Chaplain, give me a hand," said Jones. We got the wounded solider up on the chopper. There were four or five others already aboard. "Come on, Chap, let's get the Major on this one. He's the last," said Jones.<br /><br />"How many of our men were killed," I asked.<br /><br />"Only nine wounded that we know of. No one killed. We killed three Dinks. Don't know for sure how many attacked. The rest got away." Jones answered in a loud voice.<br /><br />"How did they get in?” I asked.<br /><br />"Sergeant Rechico said they came up through the dump. They started with dropping satchel changes in the TOC. That's where the Major got it. The CO's are fine. Nothing hit them. They were in the TOC with the door closed. The Major was outside having a smoke and the concussion blew out his eardrums. Next they hit the mortars and 105’s on their way out." <br /><br />The dust off was finally completed. Relative silence fell on the base. In the distance I could hear the Cobras checking out the area. The mess sergeant brought us some coffee. After a hot cup of strong coffee, Capt. Jones suggested that we check in with the TOC.<br /><br />The steel doors were closed. Captain Jones knocked. "Captain Jones, sir, and the Chaplain," he yelled out.<br /><br />The door opened. "Come on in. Some night, huh, Chaplain?” Lieutenant Colonel Sterling said. "How was the Major doing?"<br /><br />"He was dusted off last, yelling at the top of his lungs. The doc told me he busted both ear drums." Jones told him.<br /><br />"Damn!" said Sterling. "I really needed him." He saw us looking around. "Anderson is walking the perimeter with the Sergeant Major."<br /><br />CPT Jones commented, "We're lucky with only nine wounded. I thought by the noise and explosions and confusion, that we were really being overrun."<br /><br />The CO said, "We would have gotten them all if we were able to have our weapons loaded while on base. That damn regulation, not allowing us to have our weapons loaded while on a f###in’ firebase is crazy. If some of the old-timers hadn't ignored it, we wouldn't have gotten any of the son-of- bitches. Sgt. Green of B Company blew two of the bastards away and thinks he might have wounded at least one more. I'm not sure yet who got the other f####er. That's not going in the report. As far as Brigade will know, we responded to a Sapper attack."<br /><br />The radio began to crack out a message. The Personal Officer (S-I) operating the radio reported. "Sir, that was from Division. They want the change of command to go on as planned tomorrow. The Division Commander will be here at sunup. They did cancel the band, however."<br /><br />"Good!" Said Sterling. "Chaplain, are you going to have a service today?" He asked.<br /><br />"Yes sir." <br /><br />"I'll try to be there, but with the General's coming out so early I may not make it."<br /><br />"I understand, sir," I told him.<br /><br />"One more thing. What's the weather going to be like today?" he asked with a grin.<br /><br />I was a little surprised by his question. "I guess we will have to see if it will be sunny or overcast."<br /></span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/6BhgpfRYF9A" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com0http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/07/sappers-dangerous-visitors-in-night.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-48782274185056452582008-07-18T00:43:00.001-05:002008-07-18T00:59:16.004-05:00THE BANQUET: Food Keeps the Army Fighting<div align="right">February 13, evening</div>Dear Chaplain Miller, <br /><br /><span class="dropcap">I</span> am writing this letter from Speedy's bunker. I'm also writing under a single light bulb that gives me the feeling that I'm all alone, like a camper in the woods. I'm not sure where Speedy is, probably out having a beer with some other guys.<br /><span id="fullpost"><br />The big party is over. It's Sunday evening, almost Valentine’s Day. LTC Anderson is in the process of packing his gear and getting ready to leave the firebase after the ceremony tomorrow morning. My new CO, LTC Sterling, is in control and moved into the TOC. <br /><br />I believe I closed my last correspondence, as I was about to go to a command banquet in the TOC. What a nice way to start my first field experience in the real war of Vietnam, with steak, wine and if I wanted to, I could have smoked a big cigar.<br /><br />If it wasn't for the mortar's teams sending up illumination flares and a few explosive rounds just in case Charley was in the area, you might think we were at fancy steak house in San Francisco. Candles lit each table and several “volunteer” enlisted men served table.<br /><br />When everyone finally arrived and the wine was poured, the new Executive Officer stood to give the first toast for the evening. "I propose a toast to the President of the United States." Everyone took a little sip of wine. Yes, even the Baptist Chaplain. Next came toasts given by other officers. They toasted everyone and everything, from the 4th Division, to the Red Warriors, to our new CO and XO and finally our departing commander, LTC Anderson. <br />When the last toast was given, the XO called on me to give the invocation. As I stood after the half a dozen or so official toasts, I thought of saying, "I drink to God, who makes it possible for all of us to go home." No guts, no glory. So I said a short prayer of blessing for the food and asked our Lord to bless our troops and officers and especially our departing CO and our new incoming CO.<br /><br />The steaks were cooked to perfection. The baked potatoes were wonderful, with plenty of chives, cheese and sour cream. There were fresh cooked carrots and a fresh green salad with what the chef called his "house dressing." Wineglasses were never empty. <br /><br />One of the volunteer GI's, the one I saw rehearsing earlier in the day, was singing folk songs. I wish I had the words to the song he wrote. It sounded like a folk song off of Haight Ashbury in San Francisco. I was reminded of the Hippies who came over to the Baptist Seminary I attended in 1961 in Mill Valley, California, and sang their folk songs about "peace or protesting" to the accompaniment of guitars and tambourines. <br /><br />The only line I can remember from the GI’s song went something like this, "It's raining now, it's snowing now and you know what that means, the lifers want a police-call to clean up the scene." As best I could tell, the officers all laughed and enjoyed it very much. <br /><br />The SGM next to me seemed to especially get a good laugh out of the entertainment. However, he was a little bombed and forgot that he was a one of the "lifers."<br />At one point after the cigars were lit (No, Jim, I couldn't handle a cigar on a full stomach, at least that’s what I told the SGM when he offered me one) the SGM leaned over to me and in a slurring voice of over-indulgence said, "It’s the f###ing Navy."<br /><br />I was taken by surprise, "What Navy?”<br /><br />"What?" He seemed surprised, that I was surprised. <br /><br />"The go###mn f###ing Navy caused us to be in this god forsaken country."<br /><br />I was smiling and looking at the Lieutenant sitting across from him.<br /><br />"What in the hell does the Navy have to do with our Firebase?" the lieutenant asked the SGM.<br /><br />"Jesus," said the SGM. "Haven't you f###s heard about the Tonkin Gulf Resolution?"<br /><br />I thought a moment. Tonkin, yeah, I heard about it in 1964. President Lyndon B. Johnson said something about that on TV. The VC attacked our ships in international waters off the coast of Vietnam and he got Congress give him the power to attack and bomb North Vietnam. As I remember, all but two of the congressmen voted to send more troops and spend more money on Vietnam. "I remember hearing something about it a couple years ago,” I said.<br /><br />"You bet your ass you did," slurred TOP. "Those f###ing chicken s##t sailors couldn't fight their way out of a wet paper sack. Hell, they were whining because they feared for their damn asses. The VC boats were nowhere near their ships; they were running from their own f###ing wakes. I think it was some ship named Maddox or Turner Joy. They were running around in the fog like blind sons of b###hes and cried to Johnson and that gave him an excuse to draft more FNG’s and send them to his war with these go####n Dinks. I tell you, we’re here because the Navy f###ed up."<br /><br />The top sergeant was getting a little loud, so I suggested that he needed to get back to his bunker before it got too late. <br /><br />Lieutenant Colonel Sterling stood up and announced that his first order as the new CO was to make sure the perimeter was secure and for the rest of us to get some rest because he was going to hit the ground running after the ceremony tomorrow.<br /><br />Everyone got up and went to their appointed duties. The Commanding Officer and the Executive Officer went into the tactical operational center (TOC). The Sergeant Major stumbled up the steps and another sergeant helped him toward his hooch. The enlisted volunteers began to clean up the dinning room. I sat by myself thinking about the night. I took a napkin and began to write my thoughts so I wouldn't forget.<br /><br />Jim, I’m including those thoughts in this letter, just to have a record of that eventful night.<br /><br />Candlelight flickers low, the candles are almost burned out. The tent walls cast dark shadows across the remnants of barbecued steak, salad and medium dry red wine left in some of the glass goblets. This is a Firebase saying good-by to its battalion commander. <br /><br />Tables and benches made from ammo boxes are empty now where once sat officers, lifers, listening to folk songs about their need for a police-call. These officers understood better than the grunts that they were indeed 'lifers'. Lifers away from family, Lifers who live with the fear that death might extinguish the life-light of one of his men or himself. <br /><br />This all happened on a firebase in this strange mountain terrain in the midst of a strange war with an even a stranger atmosphere. I ask myself, "Am I here because the men are here, or because the Navy screwed up?" <br /><br />Situations like this tonight might bring tears if the men were lesser men. The mood of festivities dissipated as the CO went back to the ugly reality of war. There were still men in the bush, men in harm’s way, and men under the stars. If only the jungle cover would let the stars flicker on the hiding place of these men called grunts that wait in panic for enemy movement in the area. <br /><br />So another day draws to a strange close. The GI waiters snuffed out the last of the candles. I hear a voice curse in the darkness. I utter a sigh that is a prayer. "See me safely through this night, oh Lord. My family is awaiting my safe return."<br /><br />I made my way back through the maze of bunkers to Speedy'S place. On this dark and moonless night it was cool and quiet with the exception of an occasional "boom, boom" from the mortars. As I got close to the hooch, a lamination flare went off, giving the base an eerie glow. I slid down into the bunker. I took off my boots and decided to strip to my underwear.<br /><br />Jim, this one bulb light is getting to my eyes, or it might be the wine. I’ll sign off for now and finish this tomorrow afternoon.<br /><br />Sincerely yours,<br /><br />Don</span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/MGAycj_yPgA" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com0http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/07/banquet-food-keeps-army-fighting.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-69580037458035279892008-07-14T16:17:00.001-05:002008-07-14T16:28:32.982-05:00THE REPLACEMENT COMPANY: Where the FNG’s Meets Their Destination - Part 2<span class="dropcap">I</span> stayed around his office and met several more chaplains whose names I can’t recall. They gave me some advice about what to expect in Nam. <br /><span id="fullpost"><br />"Don't take anything from the kids on the street; it might explode in your hand. Keep several extra pair of socks in your chaplain’s kit. Check with the PX every chance you get because they run out of tooth paste, shaving lotion, deodorant and beer the same day it comes in." <br /><br />All very good advice I was to learn in the short time since I arrived.<br /><br />The day dragged on with no news about when I could get out to the Fourth Division. That evening after dinner and an old western movie, I hit the sack, after making sure my gear was secured and safely put in my locker.<br /><br />I felt someone shaking my foot. I woke up to see a sergeant standing over me. <br /><br />"Wake-up chaplain, you're on the manifest to Pleiku."<br /><br />"What time is it?" I asked. <br /><br />"It’s time to move out now. 0130. The bus is out front, waiting to take you to the air field," the sergeant said.<br /><br />I moved as fast as I could. I couldn't believe we were moving out at this un-godly hour. Holding my AWOL bag and duffel bag, I ran to meet the bus. There were about thirty sleepy soldiers in a formation standing beside an armored bus, waiting to get away from the replacement nightmare.<br /><br />The sergeant in charge told all the enlisted personnel to turn in their fatigue jacket. "You're in Vietnam now. No need for excess baggage. Chaplain, you paid for yours so you can keep it if you want to." <br /><br />"Thank you, Sergeant, I'll hang on to it," I said.<br /><br />He read off each name and destination as we boarded the bus. When I went by the sergeant, I asked if we would get some coffee.<br /><br />"They have a small canteen at the air field up there," he said. What he didn't say was that it wouldn't open until seven in the morning and we would be long gone.<br /><br />The C-130 was waiting with its motor running. It ran and ran for over an hour before we were allowed to board. The men were patient and silent. Most of them were catching catnaps while we all waited for the orders to take off. Flying in a C-130 is different from flying in other aircraft. The seats are made of straps and we had to sit side by side as though we were going to bail out. The lights were red and dim and the smell of aviation fuel filled the air. <br /><br />Finally the pilot arrived from someplace out of the dark. "Y'all ready?" he said as he entered the cockpit and took his place next to the other crew members.<br /><br />I'm not sure how long we had waited on the ground. The roar of the motor put me to sleep. Suddenly, I felt a jerk. I woke up, thinking we were about to land. The troop next to me, whispered, "Relax, chap, we’re just taking off." I looked at my watch. 0700.<br /><br />The plane landed at Camp Enari in Pleiku. Camp Enari was named after 1LT Mark Enari, a recipient of the Silver Star. Six of the packs (name for GI’s who were passengers) found out that they were at the wrong location so the sergeant had to make arrangements for them to get back to Bienhoa. In the meantime those young men without field jackets sat shivering in 45-degree weather waiting for their flight south. I was comfortable, but could have used a cup of coffee, but since we landed at 0830 we found out that the canteen was closed for the day for some unmentioned reason.<br /><br />The 4th Infantry Division, 2nd Brigade, 1/12 Battalion, The Red Warriors had arrived in Pleiku in September 1966. I joined the Army Chaplaincy in September 1966 out of Fresno, California, heeding President Johnson's call to stop the communist aggression from taking over South Vietnam. Now four years later, I was sitting on the 4th Division air base, waiting for transportation to take me to 1/12 - my new assignment.<br /><br />The 4th Division had been given the mission to secure the II Corps Area the Central Highlands. Some of the Units of the Division were deployed and scattered far to the south below Saigon. For the past four years, the Division area of operation was the western central highlands along the border of Cambodia. They also provided support around the coastal plains near Tuy Hoa. It was an extremely important mission and became increasingly so throughout the four years of fighting. <br /><br />The area was one of the primary supply and staging areas of the North Vietnamese as they transported material and personnel down the Ho Chi Minh Trail through Cambodia and then into South Vietnam. One of the primary missions of the 4-Id was to find and eliminate North Vietnamese Army regular units who were operating out of the central highlands as well as to find and destroy the supplies and equipment that were cached in the rugged, under-populated terrain.<br /><br />Unknown to me and I'm sure many other American soldiers throughout South Vietnam, 1970 was to be the year of draw-down. Plans were afoot to bring the division home by the end of the year. However my main concern now was for a cup of hot coffee and a long nap.<br /><br />A jeep pulled up and a sergeant reported to the fellow in charge. "Sorry about the canteen,” he said. "We had a little trouble around the perimeter last night and everything is f###ed up. They should be down here in an hour or so." My ride to Division HQ arrived at the same time they opened the canteen. I had to put my coffee break on hold for a little while longer.<br /><br />Jim, would you believe my driver dropped me off at the 4th Division Replacement Company? Another replacement company! I was told that I would have to take two weeks of special Vietnam combat training before I would be allowed to join up with the Red Warriors. <br /><br />As hungry as I was, I called the Division Chaplain's Office. The Chaplain was not in as yet, but his assistant assured me that I was at the right place. Every new person had to take the training as part of his or her in-processing. Even Chaplains needed to know how to kill VC. He didn't say that but I thought that's what he was getting at.<br /><br />After making the call to the Division Chaplain’s Office, I tried to find some breakfast for the troops and myself, but I was told that the mess hall was closed. It closed after 0800 hours.<br /><br />I reported in to the new replacement company and told them I needed to see the Division Chaplain. They pointed out his office on a large map of Camp Enari hanging on the HQ wall. It was one of the hundred or so buildings that housed the Division and the 2nd Brigade and other attached units. Although a hot and humid typical afternoon of Central Highland weather, I looked forward to the two-mile walk to the Division Chaplain’s office.<br /><br />When I arrived, Col. Chaplain Kelly greeted me. "Congratulations. Don. You’re on the Major's list."<br /><br />"Thanks. The chaplain at Bienhoa told me, when I met him," I said.<br /><br />"It won't affect your assignment. I was able to place you with the 1/12. They will be getting a new CO in February. A friend of yours, LTC Noble –(I believe you were his battalion chaplain in Okinawa) said you wanted to be assigned to the Infantry. The 4th Infantry is one of the best."<br /><br />"So I've been told," I said. "Let me ask you, sir, do I have to go through that special combat training at the Replacement Company?”<br /><br />He gave a big grin. Jim, he has biggest teeth I have ever seen. "I'm afraid so. It’s all part of in-processing for the 4th. The General wants all officers to go through the program and evaluate it to see if it is appropriate. It's his new project. I'm sure it will be helpful to you and that you’ll find it appropriate." <br /><br />I didn't say what I was thinking, but replied instead, "Maybe you can get me out early. I understand Chaplain Iverson, whom I'm replacing is due to DOURS this week, and I would like a chance to meet with him before he leaves."<br /><br />"He's a great chaplain. I hope you meet him before he leaves. I'll see what I can do about shortening your time at the replacement company." <br /><br />"Thank you, sir."<br /><br />Well, Jim, to make a long story come to it’s ending, I finally made it to my unit. That is, I met my CO today. The training at Division was phony. I took training in Okinawa that the Green Berets gave and that was far superior. Chaplain Kelly was able to get me out of the second week of training. I did meet Chaplain Iverson; in fact, I stayed in his hooch for a couple of weeks before my company moved to Camp Radcliff. My experience in Enari and Iverson's hooch is something I'll share later on. <br /><br />It took me a while to finally get out into the field and to this firebase; today is my first day and will be my first night in the field. I met my outgoing and incoming commanders this afternoon. I had my first field service and now I’m waiting for a change of command party in the middle of the Vietnam jungle. What a war! <br /><br />Sincerely,<br /><br />Don<br /><br />I finished writing my letter to Jim. I got up, put my journal aside and headed down to the TOC. The sun was almost gone, only a red glow came over the mountains. It was beginning to cool off and the air was fresh and crisp. <br /><br />When I got to the TOC, I noticed some changes. A large tent was erected in between the two-conx hooches. The sides were rolled up to let the air flow through. I saw eight or nine tables with white tablecloths set up with plates, silver and wine and water glasses. <br /><br />An enlisted GI sat at the back table tuning a guitar. Two half-barrel BBQ grills with bright red coals smoked. A few officers I hadn't met yet milled about. The SGM came up behind me and said, "Come on, Chaplain, let’s go on down and join the party." He was wearing a clean set of fatigues, his boots had a fresh spit shine, but his breath told me he had a head start on the festivities.</span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/EuJs62FmeCI" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com0http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/07/replacement-company-where-fngs-meets_14.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-29671215801545670342008-07-06T23:05:00.002-05:002008-07-14T16:27:41.956-05:00THE REPLACEMENT COMPANY: Where the FNG’s Meets Their Destination - Part 1<div align="RIGHT">February 13 late evening</div>Dear Chaplain Miller, <br /><br /><br /><span class="dropcap">I</span> have about an hour before I go to the command dinner for my CO. I understand it will be wine and a thick rib eye steak with all the trimmings. Some war! I had my first service today. I only had ten in attendance, but using communion as a separate service, I can send the Chief an attendance of twenty. I thought Baptists were bad about inflating figures. Seems to be a Vietnam syndrome.<br /><span id="fullpost"><br />With this letter, let me get back to my first week in Vietnam. I told you about the flight from the States and my feelings as I arrived in Bienhoa. Well, things got worse as I headed for the Replacement Company. The caravan of olive drab buses finally pulled up out in front of the sheet metal terminal. The Cadre started shouting their commands at us. You would think we were prisoners of war instead of replacements. On second thought, maybe we were prisoners of this war. <br /><br />They lined us up according to rank and we shuffled on the buses. The first thing I noticed was that the windows of the bus were covered with heavy hurricane screen fencing. One of the cadres told us that the screens were “to keep the Vietnamese from throwing rocks, grenades and other s##t in on us." Protecting us from those whom we came to protect. What a war! What a nightmare! And it was just beginning.<br /><br />I began to feel like a stranger caught in Paradise Lost. Rolls of barbed wire lined the road, like someone had strung out a barbed wire slinky between the curb and the small business huts along the way. Squatting and standing behind the wire were a mixture of strange looking people of all ages. There were tired, old women whose faces looked liked hound dogs, with a cigarette sticking to their lips. They were wearing worn, dark ao dresses and conic straw hats. They stood silent like old statues observing the hustle and bustle around them on the dirty Bienhoa street. <br /><br />Naked small children wearing only conic hats and sandals were yelling out as the buses went by, begging for food, cigarettes, or whatever we could give them. Of course we could throw nothing out of the window because of the fencing covering them. Most of these kids had cigarettes propped in their tiny mouths as well. Their anxious dirty faces were shining with sweat. Every once in a while I spotted a youngster wearing a baseball cap or a U.S.A. soft fatigue hat. <br /><br />Plenty of sleek, shapely young women waved and gestured for us to come on in. They wore bright blue, orange, black and traditional brown ao dai dresses that were split all the way from the hem to their tiny waists revealing tight, form-fitting white pants. Some were westernized enough to be wearing mini skirts that gave a welcome message as well. I understood that there were over 300,000 prostitutes in Vietnam and that prostitution, though officially illegal, was allowed as a trade that thrived in the presence of the American GI.<br /><br />Strange-looking motor vehicles of every conceivable size and shape crowded the narrow streets, each well-filled to over capacity, with all the drivers and riders smoking cigarettes. Motorbikes were weaving in and out of traffic with sometimes four or five people hanging on. It seemed to me that traffics death and cancer deaths would produce more destruction to the Vietnamese people than the war itself. <br /><br />The sun was setting and my heart was sinking into my first hot, humid, smelly night in Vietnam. Pogo, is reported to have said, "I have met the enemy and it is us,” or something along those lines. It certainly seemed to me that the war began in the Reception Center and Replacement Company. <br /><br />I was not treated like scum, but I observed the lower ranking FNG’s being treated like something less than human. The Cadre, who managed the new arrivals, yelled down at the incoming replacements. It reminded me of "hell week for basic trainees." <br /><br />Though as a Captain I was ignored, as a Chaplain, I attempted to interfere with the program when I suggested that the men were tired and maybe giving us a break and a cup of coffee would be a nice thing to do. <br /><br />"Chaplain," said an E-6 who was obviously tired and didn't want to get into any conflict with a captain, "they need to get with the program and we need to get them out of here as soon as we can." <br /><br />I made a mild protest, but I must confess I, too, was too tired to fight an internal war with the cadre. I chose rather to pray that we would get our traveling orders to our assignments and be on our way to our individual units.<br /><br />What took place was a series of briefings. We got a little information about the culture of Vietnam and a little more about the war itself. A great deal of time was spent on the dangers of using drugs. There was an amnesty program in Vietnam for GI’s who wanted to give up drugs, but if they failed to turn themselves in, strong penalties would have to be paid. <br /><br />The negative approach continued with the dangers, as one doctor so classically warned, "don't f##k the Dinks." I agreed that warnings needed to be given so the fellows would not take home something that they didn't need. I was taken aback at the raw negative manner in which such advice was given to new replacement troops. <br /><br />Standing in the back of the lecture room watching the troops that were able to stay awake, I saw one lean over to his buddy and whisper, "I'd just as soon die with the clap as with a VC bullet." One of the cadres taped him on the shoulder and told him to shut his damn mouth and pay attention.<br /><br />When the classes were over, we stood in line to receive our TA-50, combat clothing and supplies to include tents, ponchos, boots, canteens, mess kits and other equipment. The supply sergeant apologized for being out of soap and towels but said we could make a trip to the Post Exchange (PX) and buy them later. However, before anyone received their TA-50, the supply officer came into the supply room and told us that we would have to wait until tomorrow morning to be issued our equipment because they were short on duffel bags that were needed to store our equipment in. He hoped to have them by morning.<br /><br />We were assigned a bunk in our various buildings. I went to the safety of the officer’s billets where about fifteen other field grade officers were billeted. I can't remember what time it was, but it was late and I, like the rest of the troops, was beat. I put my AWOL bag under my bed, hung my fatigues on the bed rail, and said a prayer for my family and the new arrivals in Vietnam. Soon I became a chaplain sleeping with my own dream. <br /><br />At five in the morning, we were awakened and told to report to the mess hall. I must say the food was excellent and plentiful. The coffee could have been less strong, but later I found out I would need all the caffeine I could handle to get though the day.<br /><br />I sat on the edge of my bed and pulled out my bag to get my shaving gear. Would you believe someone had stolen my black Army dress shoes? They took nothing else, only my shoes. <br /><br />I mentioned it to the sergeant at the mess hall and he said, "Welcome to the 90th Replacement Company. You see, Chaplain, some of your fellow officers are heading back to the world. We are told that we should not travel stateside in our uniforms so the civilians won't spit on us. So, maybe someone figured he needed shoes that weren't too military-like. Did he leave his canvas boots?" he asked. <br /><br />"I didn't see them, but I have a pair," I said, thinking to myself as I sipped my coffee, what's going on with this war when an officer will steal a pair of shoes, which he could have had if he only asked. What is going on in America when a soldier can't travel safely in uniform after serving a year in Vietnam?<br /><br />After breakfast, I reported to the supply room to receive my TA 50. The good news was that they had found the duffel bags. There was a long line of enlisted men and officers shuffling along various stations, receiving and signing for each item that was being given to us. <br /><br />First of all, we got a duffel bag to hold the pillow, sheets, blankets, steel pot and camouflaged poncho liner and various and sundry pieces of equipment. Then we reported to finance and had our money exchanged for script. Most of us went to the PX to purchase bath towels and soap, both of which the supply sergeant said they were fresh out of. After a shopping spree at the base PX, we made our way to the much-needed showers. <br /><br />I’ll tell you, Jim, that shower was a very, very refreshing moment even if there was no hot water. To stand in a cold shower with fifteen other fellows reminded me of those old school days after a physical education class.<br /><br />They gave us a couple hours of free time so I went over to the replacement HQ to see when I would be departing Bienhoa for Pleiku where I was assigned. My name did not appear on the manifest and no one knew why I was not picked up. So I faced the prospect another day with the 90th. I was really anxious to get to my assignment, to get to war. In this dream, I was going crazy.<br /><br />The rest of the holdovers and I were requested to attend another short orientation in which we were told how lucky we were to arrive in Vietnam after the monsoon season. We were excused to go to chow and face a rain that was so hard, we couldn't see the chow hall that was only fifty feet across the road. <br /><br />I came to Vietnam from Okinawa, but even in that tropical climate, I never faced a rain that was like water coming from a bucket being poured out over such a large area. I thought to myself, so much for clean boots. Soaking wet, we made it to the mess hall. By the time we finished our meal, the sun was out and sopping up the humidity from the tin roofs and muddy puddles. Within an hour I was dry, except for the sweat pouring down my face and staining my soft cap.<br /><br />I still had some free time so I caught a ride over the Chaplain’s Office of the replacement detachment. I can't remember the chaplain’s name but I do remember his greeting. <br /><br />"Chaplain Fowler, congratulations. The Major's list came out today and you're on it and so am I. Of course, it may take several years for our names to come up for promotion, the way promotions are going." <br /><br />I remember asking, "Will that effect my assignment?” <br /><br />"Not in the least,” I was told.</span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/IfW8DaVBbQA" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com0http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/07/replacement-company-where-fngs-meets.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-24459300567691910632008-07-04T10:30:00.001-05:002008-07-04T10:51:46.540-05:00THE F.N.G.: Fuel for the War - Part 2<span class="dropcap">S</span>igning off on my letter, I took up my Living New Testament and began to plan for my first worship service on Firebase Warrior. <br /><span id="fullpost"><br />I turned to Ephesians, the fourth chapter, and the first and second verses. Paul was writing from prison. He didn't want to be there. He had done nothing to deserve being there. He didn't steal, lie, cheat, murder, take or sell drugs, burn his draft card, or run to Canada. It was as though he was drafted among the early Christians to be a leader that would have to go to prison. Yet in spite of the situation in which he found himself he could still write these words of blind faith and encouragement:<br /><br />"I beg you - I, a prisoner here in jail for serving the Lord - to live and act in a way worthy of those who have been chosen for such wonderful blessing as these.<br />Be humble and gentle. Be patient with each other, making allowance for each others faults because of your love." (The Living New Testament, Ephesians 4:1-2)<br /><br />Difficult words for difficult times in an Artillery Gun Position with a 105 Howitzer sitting like an icon titled Blind Faith. How can this be a "wonderful blessing”? Reaching out to each other, covering one another's backsides and having some buddy willing to risk his life for you could be construed as a "wonderful blessing."<br /><br />Finishing my thoughts, I began to make a tour of the Firebase on my own. Stopping by each bunker and hooch and getting acquainted with these men, inviting them to attend the worship service was a wonderful blessing for me. I must have answered the question a dozen times, "Chaplain what in the hell are you doing out here?" My answer never changed, "I'm here by choice, because most of you didn't have a choice."<br /><br />My service was over in fifteen minutes. Some chaplains sing hymns, but with my voice and without accompaniment, I went on without singing. Only ten GI's showed up. But since I had a separate communion service I was able to report a "head count" to the Chief’s Office at Division of twenty in services. <br /><br />I’m really uncomfortable with keeping count of attendees at worship, but choose not to fight that war. I told myself, that somewhere, someplace, chaplains were trying to prove we were needed. <br /><br />I talked to several of the men after the service. We shared information about each other. Where we were from, back in the world? What church did we belong to? How long did we have left in the country? Stranded, get-acquainted questions in a war zone.<br /><br />They asked questions about what was happening in the world. I told them that President Nixon was trying to find a way to get the United States out of Vietnam and let the ARVNS fight the VC. As to the Americans getting out of Vietnam, their response was, "Ain't gonna happen in my lifetime."<br /><br />We talked some about the protesters. "Yeah,” said one troop. "Those f####rs [sorry, chaplain] living it up in Canada and my butt is on the line here." Several heads nodded in agreement. <br /><br />Someone asked me if I was planning to spend the night. They all knew about the change of command that was planned for the morning. They were told to shine their boots and put on a full uniform. The place would be running over with Highers. <br />I asked, "What is a Higher?” <br /><br />"You know, Chaplain. An Officer from Brigade and Division," they told me.<br />They also knew that the CO had rib eye steaks for all them tonight at chow. One sandy-haired GI, who looked like a high-school football player, asked, "It is true that the Division Band is coming out here tomorrow, too?”<br /><br />"I guess so. That's what Top said. Someone at base camp told me they would be here in the morning," I answered. <br /><br />"Crazy,” was his only response as he turned and walked away shaking his head.<br /><br />I still had about an hour before the command dinner. The sun had made its way down behind the trees and the evening was cooling off. There was still plenty of light and except for the images of war scattered about the base, it looked peaceful, calm and restful. The scenery was beautiful as I looked out across the mountain and saw the clouds turning a light orange against a deep blue background.<br /><br />I walked back to the hooch with Speedy. He didn't say much. As we came up to his hooch, he turned to me and said, "Thanks, chaplain. It was a good service." Then he said, “I’m going to the pad and clean it up for the night. See you later." I got out my journal and continued my letter to Chaplain Miller.</span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/u427hGQlGes" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com0http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/07/fng-fuel-for-war-part-2.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-52950195203037701742008-07-02T22:13:00.001-05:002008-07-02T22:31:36.364-05:00THE F.N.G.: Fuel for the War - Part 1<span class="dropcap">I</span> am one of the FNG’s taking time to write to my family and friends every chance I get. I joined the Army Chaplaincy in 1966 when then-President Johnson was building up the armed forces here in Vietnam. When I finally arrived in January 1970, President Johnson had quit his job as Commander-in-Chief, refusing to run for president for a second term. That should have been a hint to me that this war might not be winnable. <br /><span id="fullpost"><br /><br /><div align="right">February 23, Late afternoon</div>Dear Chaplain Miller, <br /><br />I'm starting off to war in a dream. At least I feel like I'm dreaming. I'm watching Chaplain Fowler as he says good-by to his wife, Gwen. This is not so much of a nightmare, more like floating between sleep and reality. Gwen has left to go home. <br /><br />The plane is before us on the runway. The bus that took us from Oakland's Space Available Depot to the San Francisco airport drove us to where the plane was waiting. We had no band to send us off, no young women to kiss us good-by. Not even a song like, "When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again, Hurrah. Hurrah." No cheerleaders were present waving pom-poms. Only the dark end of the airport waited. <br /><br />Spotlights gave an eerie glow, shining through the San Francisco fog. I felt as if I was going on some secret clandestine mission. No terminal bright lights and coffee and donuts waited for us when we unloaded our bus. No USO worker could to be found. <br /><br />The bus came to a stop, and the doors opened with a sliding swish of air that woke up those passengers who were trying to catch a nap. The passengers were strangely quiet as we disembarked into the fog and marched single file across the black top airstrip and up the steps into the plane. I was one of sixty passengers who now joined the other waiting passengers already aboard waiting to be one of President Nixon's and General Westmoreland's FNG’s.<br /><br />We entered the plane from the ramp, stepping into the long body of a DC-8. We were greeted for the first time by two rather conventional, yet pleasant looking young ladies, dressed in mini-skirted uniforms with Buster Brown hats. Rows of seats, three-deep lined both sides of the aisle, with no first class seats available. <br /><br />The men began to fill up the open seats slowly, quietly, like pallbearers at a funeral. It was like entering a cathedral, where no one dared to speak above a whisper for fear of breaking the holy moment. I suspect like me, most were praying. Some would not be coming back. I thought to myself, these poor guys. They're just kids really. I asked myself, “Are they ready to become men?” Soon, all too soon, they would have to be men, like it or not.<br /><br />Time seemed to stand still in flight. I found myself thinking again, this is all a dream. See that fellow over there, he looks like me. His fatigues are starched; his name is in black letters above his shirt pocket. The cross and bars and canvas boots all look like they belong to me, but they must belong to someone else.<br /><br />"What's that?” a voice said from someplace on the plane.<br /><br />I'm awakened. Two eager teenager's faces are peering over at me, yet past me, trying to get a look at the land below us. We were getting our first view of Vietnam.<br /><br />"You fellows anxious to land?” I asked.<br /><br />"No sir! We almost came this close,” they said holding their fingers an inch apart, “to bailing out when we stopped at Guam."<br /><br />"Look, Chaplain, those fires, reckon they’re from bombs?” one of the fellows asked.<br /><br />I know now that they were fires set by the rice farmers who were clearing their fields. But as an FNG, I had no way of knowing that, and like the two fellows looking at Vietnam for the first time, I felt a little apprehension as our plane began its decent.<br /><br />The wheels hit the runway and the plane sped past stationed planes of various shapes, sizes, war colors and camouflage. My feelings were causing gyrations in my stomach like butterflies with an itch. I had tension and felt anticipation of childish waiting for Christmas and a spanking at the same time. I saw myself fumbling in my dream, wondering, will they rush us off the plane, hand us an M-16 and have us double-time to a safe bunker. What is on the other side of that door? <br /><br />The pilot announced over the intercom. “Welcome to Vietnam gentleman; please keep you seat belts fastened.” <br /><br />"I hope I can for the next twelve months,” said a young voice from the rear.<br /><br />We came to a slow, easy stop. GI's began to chatter nervously. I went off into my thoughts. Who will be the first to fall? When the door opens, what will happen? Dumb, that is what my thoughts were, dumb. Nothing so dramatic was about to happen yet. <br /><br />I stepped out on the ramp landing. Before me, lay Bienhoa military airport.<br />Only ten years ago, Bienhoa had been a calm village in the midst of rich rice paddies, according to Stanley Karnow, a historian who visited that city in 1959. <br /><br />The Americans had only eight advisors stationed there to assist the French in their struggle with the Vietminh. While six of those advisors were watching a movie, "The Tattered Dress" they were attacked by Vietminh guerrillas and slaughtered by automatic weapon fire. They were not the first Americans to lose their lives in Vietnam but became among the early causalities. <br /><br />Who would have suspected back in 1959 when I was planning to graduate from a small Baptist college that I, as an Army Chaplain, would be stepping off a plane in a changed, strange, Vietnam society in January 1970?<br /><br />The pretty stewardesses were standing like a minister at the front door of his church after the services, shaking hands with departing parishioners. "Good-bye and good luck," they said to each of the young bewildered faces that passed them by.<br /><br />The young man in front of me held onto one of the stewardess' hand long and firmly. "I want to remember how a beautiful woman feels,” he said to her with a big grin. A great line, I thought to myself, too bad she is flying back and he's going to war.<br /><br />This just has to be a dream. Here I am marching off to war. Here I go in a long olive drab green line following the orange markers that guide our path to war. No sound of guns, no boom of cannons, no bunker to run into, only a sheet metal building crowded with empty chairs. <br /><br />Another long green line of olive drab troops, going toward an awaiting plane, they're part of the 140,000 troops that would be withdrawn in 1970; all of them yelling and cheering. "Short, Short," holding up their fingers in the V sign and shouting "YEHOWEEEEEE!” Pointing over to our line as we come off the plane, they shout out to us, “Welcome FNG’s." <br /><br />It's funny now; I had no idea what they meant. As I watched these fellows load their “Freedom Bird” for the real world, I thought, thank God, some do get to come home.<br /><br />Now I find myself in a dream state again, but this is reality, waiting for a bus, standing in formation, only the sergeant shouting at the new arrivals to stay straight, don't break formation. The bus is forty minutes late. My fear turns to frustration; anxiety to anticipation. What in the world, am I doing here? Waiting for a bus to go to war. Lord; please wake me up from this dream.<br /><br />Sincerely,<br /><br />Don</span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/kX2Xo05MBwA" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com0http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/07/fng-fuel-for-war-part-1.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-59342889058131873912008-06-30T21:46:00.008-05:002008-07-01T06:55:38.923-05:00Blind Faith Receives an Award!<div class="separator" style="text-align: center; clear: both;"><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cwMk-a4ywvY/SGmlnRwvhCI/AAAAAAAAApQ/97DyyiP9pWE/s1600-h/Arte.jpg" imageanchor="1" linkindex="23" style="border: 0pt none ; background-color: transparent; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_cwMk-a4ywvY/SGmlnRwvhCI/AAAAAAAAApQ/38RynIUe9U4/s320-R/Arte.jpg" style="border: 0pt none ;" /></a></div><span class="dropcap">B</span>ob O. from <a href="http://thebobofiles.com/" linkindex="24" target="_blank">The BoBo Files</a> has honored Blind Faith with the prestigious <a href="http://arteypico.blogspot.com/" linkindex="25" target="_blank">Arte y Pico</a> award.&nbsp; It means a lot to me that someone appreciates my dad's diary of this trying time in his life.&nbsp; A diary that also shares a glimpse of history during a painful war for our country.<span id="fullpost"><br /><br />The <a href="http://arteypico.blogspot.com/" linkindex="26" target="_blank">Arte y Pico</a> award was created and to be given to bloggers who inspire others with their creativity and their talents, also for contributing to the blogging world in whatever medium. When you receive this award it is considered a "special honor". Once you have received this award, you are to pass it on to 5 others.<br /><br />"What a great way to show some love and appreciation to your fellow bloggers!!!<br /><br />The rules for passing this honor on:<br /><br />1) Pick 5 blogs that you would like to award this honor to.<br />2) Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.<br />3) Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.<br />4) Award-winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link of "Arte y Pico" blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award. http://arteypico.blogspot.com.<br /><br />Here is my list of recipients:<br /><br /><a href="http://asecondcup.squarespace.com/" linkindex="27" target="_blank">A Second Cup</a> - This is great parenting blog that's probably not really intended as a parenting blog. However, since my kids have not hit the teen-age years yet, I read these stories to get a glimpse of my own future.<br /><br /><a href="http://timeforasmile.com/" linkindex="28" target="_blank">Time for a Smile</a> - Awesome photography blog. You have to check out these smiles - they're contagious.<br /><br /><a href="http://obhis.blogspot.com/" linkindex="29" target="_blank">Obscure History</a> - I love&nbsp; "This Day in History" facts and trivia. Obscure History is great combination with daily "obscure" history facts.&nbsp; Sign up for a daily feed and learn a little history trivia each day.<br /><br /><a href="http://strider-lifequest.blogspot.com/2008_05_01_archive.html" linkindex="30" target="_blank">Life Quest</a> - Another great photography blog. However, in addition to some awesome photographs, this blogger sprinkles in worthy campaigns such as praying for other bloggers.<br /><br /><a href="http://sillybearinc.blogspot.com/" linkindex="31" target="_blank">Sillybear Inc.</a> - A great Christian humor blog. Proof that you can be really funny and still be wholesome.<br /><br /></span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/DMKrZYLCZCg" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com1http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/06/b-ob-o.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-70368102874998335412008-06-30T20:43:00.002-05:002008-06-30T20:55:47.567-05:00THE FIREBASE: From This Clearing Comes the Destruction of War - Part 2<span class="dropcap">W</span>e made our way toward the pad, and Top pointed out Speedy's bunker. “Drop your pack and stuff off here and I'll take you over to the TOC so you can meet the CO's. You are planning to come to the party tonight, aren't you?"<br /><br />"You bet. I wouldn't miss a steak dinner in Vietnam on a bet." <span id="fullpost"><br /><br />"I'll see that we sit together.” Top nodded “I can't believe the Division Band is coming out in the morning. This is a real crazy war. A far cry from what it was like a couple of years ago."<br /><br />We came up to the wall of sandbags that surrounded the large hole with the two-conx container one at each end. We came to the steps leading down, with the flag and warrior feather guarding the entrance way. "This is where the TOC is located. The CO and XO bunk in the containers with the operations. They have a cot for a bed and a bottle for comfort."<br /><br />The door was open to the TOC. The CO's were sitting on the cot and the XO was on talking on the radio. They both stood. I attempted to salute, but they reached out their hands for me to shake. <br /><br />"Welcome, I'm LTC. Anderson and this is LTC. Sterling, my replacement." <br /><br />Sterling grabbed my hand and shook it vigorously. "Welcome to the Red Warriors, Chaplain. I'm looking forward to getting to know you. What's the weather going to be like tomorrow?" He let out a little laugh and the others laughed with him.<br /><br />That question threw me. I had no idea why he asked me and I gave him an “I’m not sure answer”. <br /><br />Later I asked Top what was behind the question. He reminded me about the new movie, “Patton,” that had just made its way to Vietnam and was being shown on every firebase and compound through out the country. In the movie General Patton had an encounter with his Chaplain. Patton ordered the Chaplain to pray for the weather to assist his plans for the invasion. Top couldn't remember if Patton wanted it to rain or to stop raining but it really didn't really matter. The Chaplain said a prayer and the weather suited the General’s plan of attack. So he gave the Chaplain a medal. <br /><br />Now, for the first month or two every time I reported to Colonel Sterling, he would kid me by asking, "What's the weather going to be like?”<br /><br />"I have no idea Sir,” I would answer. He would smile and go on with his mission.<br /><br />Looking to the SGM, LTC. Sterling asked, "You have a place for the chaplain for the night?” <br /><br />"Yes sir." There was twinkle in his eye and a bright smile on his face. "He's bunking down in "Speedy's Hooch.”" <br /><br />The CO laughed. "That will be an experience. We'll see you tonight Chaplain, at dinner. Plan to give the invocation." <br /><br />"Right sir!” The SGM and I turned and left the TOC.<br /><br />To make conversation as we walked back towards Speedy's hooch, I mentioned that I had heard a rumor at base camp was that we were going to be moving in a couple of days. "Is that true, SGM?”<br /><br />Top let out a curse. "Damn, not again. Who told you that?”<br /><br />“I heard it at the brigade briefing last night." <br /><br />"Don't mind my cussing. It doesn't mean anything. It's just that all we do in this f###ing battalion is build firebase after firebase. We just get comfortable and s##t; we have to move. My back is killing me; I've dug so many holes in this damn country that I feel like a gopher." <br /><br />We stopped at Speedy’s hooch. "Chaplain, I'll see you tonight at the dinner." He turned to leave.<br /><br />I stopped him. "Wait minute, Top. I was planning on having a service later this evening before the dinner. How do I get the word out?” <br /><br />"No sweat, Chap. I'll take care of it. How about four thirty, just before chow?”<br /><br />"Sounds great. I'll hold it in the Artillery section, next to Blind Faith." I told him.<br /><br />Speedy was not around when I got to his bunker. He had put up a makeshift shade, using his poncho liner. He had attached it to the side of the bunker and used two more stakes or poles to give it enough height to sit under. I got down in the hole that led into the bunker, and pulled away the door that was made from a sandbag that was split open. <br /><br />Inside a foot-wide trench that was even with the entranceway ran down the middle. On either side, about two feet higher than the bottom of the trench was space for an air mattress. The top of the bunker was lined with logs holding two layers of sandbags on top of them, leaving a space about three-feet above the two shelves. It was dark and musty smelling inside, so I chose to sit out under the makeshift shade, planned my first service and prepared an invocation for a dinner party in the jungle of Vietnam.<br /><br />Sitting in the shade, I felt a cool breeze blowing. It felt cool because my fatigues were soaking wet. Just as I sat down, Speedy came up to hooch. "Can I get you a beer or a coke?” he asked me. <br /><br />"A coke would be just fine."<br /><br />He went to the far side of his bunker and opened the ice chest under his poncho. He threw me a coke and laughed, "It don't matter, coke or beer they both cost only a dime at the PX."<br /><br />"Thanks," I said. “I owe you one.”<br /><br />“No sweat chaplain. I hear you’re going to hold service up at Blind Faith at four- thirty. I'll see you there. I have to get down to the pad. Another chopper coming with some FNG’s." <br /><br />"What are FNG's?” I asked.<br /><br />An odd expression passed over Speedy's face. It was as if he was trying to figure out if he should answer me. Finally he said, "Well, I guess for you, it could mean Fine New Guys." He laughed and went on down to the pad.<br /><br />It didn't take me too long to figure out that the "F" stood not for "fine" but for that four-letter word that echoed though Vietnam. “F###ing New Guys." <br /><br />Jim, I won’t try to clean up my letters from the four letter words that fill the air over here. I hope you and anyone who reads these letters will understand that I am resolved to try not to use them myself, but it seems that cussing over here is the normal language of war. <br /><br />One of the chaplains I met at base camp who had only a month left in country told me that after a couple on months in this country, he found that he used curse words in his dreams. He sometimes began to think in four letter words when he was preparing his sermons. <br /><br />I closed my eyes and laid back in the makeshift shade with my paper and pen resting on a full sandbag and went off into my dream world again, remembering how I got into this nightmare here in Vietnam and Firebase Warrior.<br /><br />There it is, Jim, not a normal letter. What’s the weather like? I hate it here or it’s not too bad here. I miss my family. What’s happening where you are? Blah, blah and laugh, laugh. I would like these letters to let you in on my inner feelings, fears, dreams and hopes. I hope they make sense to you. I will try to continue to keep you informed as to what is happening to me in the year ahead.<br /><br />Sincerely,<br /><br />Don</span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/59SRwPqXnes" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com0http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/06/firebase-from-this-clearing-comes_30.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-86582580247335113912008-06-27T10:54:00.002-05:002008-06-27T11:14:59.210-05:00THE FIREBASE: From This Clearing Comes the Destruction of War - Part 1<div align="right">February 13. Middle afternoon</div>Dear Chaplain Miller, <br /><br /><br /><span class="dropcap">F</span>irebase Warrior was a clearing about the length of two football fields cut out of the dense jungle. It had a perimeter of twisted barbwire with thirty feet of clearing to the bush and jungle. <br /><br />I was talking to a solider at base camp who was assigned to the 4th Engineer support battalion while waiting to get in to see a movie. He was telling me how firebases were established and the amount of involvement it takes to build one of these places.<span id="fullpost"><br /><br />He told me that there are three commands involved in the establishment of firebases and their location, depending on the division’s mission. The purpose for the establishment of firebases is to protect our soldiers in the jungle area so they can receive “fire” support from the artillery command and the infantry can provide rapid response to any action. In the planning for such operations and the establishment of firebase, three commands must coordinate the action: they are the infantry, artillery and the engineers.<br /><br />The Engineers assist in finding a location in the jungles that they can clear. They have to take into consideration the location, time and place of the operation. The biggest consideration is the size of the area to be cleared as well as the composition of the unit that will occupy the area. All of this recon takes extensive map study, aerial photographs of the area and recon information from previous recon inserts. <br /><br />Before attempting any clearing, the engineers must involve the artillery to assure fields of fire, where it is needed and how they might get their weapons into place to accomplish support for the infantry. The third part of the team, the Infantry, then reviews the plan to see if it meets their goal of being able to carry out search and destroy missions in the surrounding jungle. <br /><br />Once the area has been selected, the three commands, Infantry, Artillery and Engineers, arrange for a visual recon together. In that recon, they determine if the area is suitable for helicopters to have a proper, safe landing zone. They will determine what kind of foliage, brush and undergrowth will have to be removed as well as the approximate number and average diameter of trees that are in the area. <br /><br />The standard quantities of explosive supplies necessary to establish a firebase are 1000 lbs. of composition C-4; 10 cases of bangalore torpedoes; 5,000 ft of detonation cord; 500 ft. of time fuse; 300 non-electric blasting caps and 100 M-60 fuse lighters. The engineer went on to tell me that all of the above plus the artillery big guns and bulldozers, sandbags and timbers and conx container are part of the firebase planning.<br /><br />I guess the engineer fellow wanted to impress me with the contributions the engineers made to the war effort. Now looking down on Firebase Warrior, I was indeed impressed. <br /><br />As we circled the base I could see the bunkers scattered about. Some were still being built; others were covered with dark green plastic sacks filled with sand. I would become well acquainted with sandbags. Some of the men used to say that, "Lady Bird Johnson owned a sandbag manufacturing company in Texas."<br /><br />There were tents made from ponchos and a few small trees that were spared being cut down by machetes, saws and bangalore torpedoes that were used to clear out the jungles. The larger trees were cut into logs long enough to go over the bunkers and strong enough to hold two or three layers of sand bags. At each end of the firebase, the artillery had set up their 105 howitzers and from one end to the other around along both sides were four or five mortar pits with the mortar team bunkers next to them.<br /><br />We circled once more and I spotted two conx containers sitting in a deep hole just off to the left of center on the base. There was one container on each end of the crevasse. An American flag flew next to the wall of sandbags and barbwire circled the hole with the containers. Alongside was a large, red, eight-foot wooden feather with the words, "Red Warriors" painted on it; next to the steps leading down to what I was to learn was the TOC or Tactical Operation Center.<br /><br />GI's were scattered and scurrying about, grabbing loose towels, shirts, soft hats and what ever else the blades of the whirling chopper were stirring up. Several, close to the helipad, covered their faces as the dust and dirt began to form a cloud filled with miscellaneous pieces of paper, wood chips and whatever else was not tied down.<br /><br />The chopper slowly lowered itself downward guided by the pilot; until the runners under its body touched the soil as gently as a lady puts her foot into a swimming pool to test the temperature of the water. The door gunners were off before we touched completely to the ground. I jumped right out. Before I could turn around and get my bearings, the slick was emptied. The gunners were back in their alert defensive position as the Huey, lifting off the firebase, blew dust once more as it soared off to a new mission.<br /><br />"Major, I'm Sergeant Henderson with S1. The CO wants you down at the TOC ASAP. Chaplain, he said to get yourself settled in and report to him when you're finished. Right this way, Major." <br /><br />Off they went and I stood alone, except for the pad man, Speedy, who was pouring a canteen of water over his head to get rid of the dust and dirt. He looked up,<br /><br />"Chaplain, Sir, the Sergeant Major, TOP, told me to send you up to his bunker when you arrived." He pointed up a little rise to a large bunker with an antenna sticking out of the top. "He wants to show you around. I think you're bunking with me for the night. See you later."<br /><br />I made my way toward the bunker. Several GI’s stepped up to greet me. One shirtless sweating guy called out, "Father, are you going to have services today?" <br /><br />“I am a father,” I said laughing, "and I have children to prove it. I understand Father Taddy plans to be here tomorrow to hold Catholic services. You're welcome to attend mine today if you want to. I'll let you know when they are just as soon as I get settled."<br /><br />Father Taddy had told me it was ok to invite any GI to my services no matter what their denomination because they need all the help they could find. I learned since being in the Army that being called "Father" didn't matter. It was a term for the Catholic Chaplains, but I found it endearing, and I never made a big deal about correcting anyone who called me by that title.<br /><br />I came up to the Sergeant Major’s unfinished bunker. He was squatting oriental style on his haunches holding a sand bag open while another Sergeant filled the bag with dirt from a bunker they were building. The SMG was shirtless. I could count his ribs he was so thin. His hair, what there was of it, was sticking straight up. His glasses were hanging at the end of his nose. When I came up to him, he looked up with his eyes not moving in his head. I was a little taken back when I saw he had the smoldering butt of a cigarette sticking out of his right ear.<br /><br />He spoke before I had a chance to introduce myself. "I'm Top Roundtree. You can just call me Top, everyone else does," he said. He pointed to the fellow holding a shovel of sand wearing an olive drab undershirt that was soaked through with sweat. "That's Sgt. McVay, just call him Mac. Glad you could make it out today. I understand you just got to the unit a week ago. Your predecessor, Chaplain Iverson, liked it out here. We were good friends."<br /><br />Top stood up, took the butt from his ear and hung it on his bottom lip. He was about five six and even looked thinner than when he was in squatting position. He put out his hand to shake mine. <br /><br />"Top, I hope we can be good friends, too. This is all new to me, and I have no idea where to start."<br /><br />Putting on his fatigue shirt, he said, "Come on, I need a break. I'll show you around." We made our way across the base. "I asked PFC. Speedy if you could bunk with him tonight. He built a pretty good hooch and has extra room." <br /><br />"I met him at the pad.” I said. “He told me he was expecting me.” <br /><br />“Good,” replied Top. “Out here it won't matter too much where you stay. But I'll get you a bunk with one of the officers tomorrow. Right now they're finishing up their hooch and there's no extra room.” Then he asked,<br /><br />“Did you get set up at base camp?”<br /><br />“Yeah, I set up a tent at base camp. Dave, my assistant, stayed back to finish getting it settled. I think I’ll like it. It seems roomy enough." I answered.<br /><br />"Good.” Top pointed out the artillery area. "That's the 42nd Artillery. They support our firebase with three 105 Howitzers. They give us 360 degree support."<br /><br />We came up to the howitzer and I noticed it had a name painted on it. "Blind Faith." <br /><br />"Do they name all the guns?" I asked.<br /><br />"It would seem so,” he pointing to the other 105. "There's Amazing Grace. The other one at the other end of the base is named Blind Hope." Top laughed. "Sounds like a preacher named them.”<br /><br />He went on to give me a bit of information about howitzers. He said that they were used in WWII and they are modified in Vietnam so they can be more mobile. Some 105's are towed behind a 6x6 truck, but most of them are carried into position by helicopters.<br /><br />The gun requires an eight-man crew to fire about three to six rounds per minute. They can handle a variety of ammunition, including high explosive shrapnel shells and "beehive" cartridges, which contained thousands of small, sharpened darts. The reason, he said, for having at least two batteries on each firebase when possible was that they had a range of about 12,500 yards. So having two to three 105mm at each end of the firebase covered a large area for the troops in the field to have fire support when needed. <br /><br />TOP pointed out the plastic seat on the privy that was just off from the Artillery helicopter pad. "Since you'll be covering the 42nd while you're out here, you probably can use their can. They have a better supply system than the grunts and have plastic toilet seats."<br /><br />That bit of information was a comfort to me, in the months ahead.<br /><br />"Since I'm on the subject," he went on to say. "There are piss tubes scattered across the base." Pointing to a three-inch pipe protruding about three feet from the ground on a slight angle. "I believe there's one by the dump close to Speedy's hooch." <br /><br />"That's good to know,” I responded.</span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/Hp70IAV4zZk" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com0http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/06/firebase-from-this-clearing-comes.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-86640189002644719842008-06-23T20:11:00.005-05:002008-06-27T11:16:52.321-05:00THE FAMILY: The Family That Prays Together Stays Together until There's A War<div align="right">February 13, Early Morning</div>Dear Chaplain Miller, <br /><br /><span class="dropcap">I</span>n my mind I could see the white oblong shades that cover the wooden window frames that were painted shut by years and years of white trim paint. Glass panes were ornately shaped in half-hexagon fashion, letting ample light that filtered through with a soft white hue that cast shadows across the bedroom furniture, hiding its true finish. The antiquated dresser that I was able to resurrect from the dusty tenement basement, using a handy home-do-it-yourself, inexpensive, new-type antique kit, stood at proud sentry-like attention at the foot of the bed.<span id="fullpost"><br /><br />The dresser was guarded by the sewing machine resting on the table that I had made. The machine was intended to make it easy for my Gwen, my wife of ten years to keep busy while I was off fighting the war. The center and predominate area in the small apartment bedroom was taken up by the large, king-sized bed. My chaplain’s assistant, who first saw the bed in our home in Colorado Springs where I was first stationed, called it "an adult playpen." The golden spread on the bed gave the room a stately air of adventure. It was our kingdom, our throne. I had one hour left before I had to go into exile for the next three hundred, sixty-five days.<br /><br />I had secret thoughts way back in my mind that maybe I would make it home before next Christmas. Even while sitting in this chopper it still was a prayer, a hope and a dream within this dream that I was experiencing at the moment. <br /><br />"Honey, when is Grandma bringing back the boys?”<br /><br />"She said to come by her place to say goodbye before you leave. You can say goodbye to her and your dad and the boys. Your brother Tom will be there, too. He doesn't have to report to his Guard unit until the end of the month."<br /><br />"Well, sweetheart, we've only an hour to ourselves. Come on over here, I'm already missing you"<br /><br />Tears were in her eyes, "Oh, Don." That was all she was able to say.<br /><br />"Hey, don't start crying. Remember, I get R and R in six months." I tried to comfort her.<br /><br />The chopper droned on. So did my dreams and memory. I took my last look around the dim shadows of the bedroom. My heart began to beat as I remembered the last touch. The full long passionate kiss, the feel of her warm body, soft, sensually pressed against me. I had only one hour to be with my love, my lover, and my wife. The question echoed in my dream-like thoughts of the hour. Why in God's name did I ever join the army?<br /><br />"Good-bye, boys. Come on, Tony, Mike, give daddy a big kiss and promise to be good and take care of mummy for me." I made no attempt to wipe my own tears as I held these two dear gifts from God. They didn’t answer me. What can a two and six-year-old understand about daddy going to war? What does a child feel about that which they have not experienced? My feelings were bewilderment, frustration, anxiety, fear, or, were those only emotions belonging to a daddy when he was doing childish adventures?<br /><br />"Come on, Gwen, we better get going. Now, Mom, don't you start. I'll be just fine." <br /><br />Dad took my hand and pulled me into a hug, "Take care of yourself." <br /><br />Tom shook my hand, "I'll write you from Georgia when I get there. They do let you write in boot camp, don't they?” <br /><br />"I think so. I never went to boot camp, only a week of training at New Jersey." <br /><br />He smiled. "Take care of yourself, brother.” <br /><br />"No sweat,” I said in my dream-like stupor, while my mind said, “I hope."<br /><br />I felt a tap on my shoulder; the left door gunner handed me a cold coke. He smiled, closed his ice chest and returned to his gunnery post. Never has a coke tasted so good. I felt refreshed but continued to drift back into recording my dream. Who knows? Maybe someday I’ll want to write a book. At any rate, my kids might want to know what happened when their daddy went to war. <br /><br />I sipped my coke and began to write. In a confused turmoil I remembered the evening I left. I was standing in a dream-like vapor, in Oakland Army base, in a long line of other GI’s all waiting in the "space available line,” trying to get on the next flight to Vietnam. It was indeed very dream-like and strange standing in line trying to get a flight to war. <br /><br />The first two flights that night were filled. Gwen and I went out to eat and talk a little about how to handle our correspondence, expenses and plans for R and R in Hawaii, sometime in July or August. We were planning to make the first part of my tour longer than the last part after R and R. It seemed that we were trying to keep the inevitable from happening.<br /><br />Finally I said, "Honey, you go on home. It looks like I'll get out on the next flight this morning. The boys will need you. Hurry now; go before I start to cry again. Remember, I love you." I said in a soft quiet voice. <br /><br />We kissed one last time, a long lingering kiss, both of us with tears in our eyes. <br /><br />"Bye, write soon," she said while wiping her eyes. <br /><br />I remember thinking I must be going out of my mind as she drove off. Here I was hurrying off to war. No! I was only hurrying to get this over with, so I could wake up from this nightmare. <br /><br />I put my journal down and looked over the side of the chopper. They don't always close the doors when flying low. The jungles were filled with trees that formed a lush green canopy. Every once in a while I could see a hut or two. We flew along a small river and then along a road, just over the treetops. All in all, it was a beautiful day for a helicopter ride.<br /><br />Randy had turned around from his co-pilot seat and tapped me, as he pointed downward. There it was, Firebase Warrior? <br />Jim, I hope I won't bore you with my rambling thoughts and emotions that I will be facing in the year ahead. I thank you for being willing to be a sounding board for me as I face this adventure with fear and tribulation.<br /><br />Sincerely,<br /><br />Don</span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/jJUO-twC5SE" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com2http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/06/family-family-that-prays-together-stays.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-68253893819022706872008-06-22T07:43:00.003-05:002008-06-23T20:24:56.738-05:00BLIND FAITH: Being In A War Because Others Have To Be There (Part 2)<span class="dropcap">I</span> had gone to Qui Nhon with Chaplain Father Taddy to visit the men from our divisions that were in the hospital. Four men had been hit with a fragment grenade. As I talked to each one and had prayer with them, I began to believe I was in a war, not just a dream. When we returned to Camp Radcliff, we found out that four more men had been wounded when their jeep hit a land mine. <br /><br />That evening when I was cleaning up my hooch, (a hooch is the home where you rest your head in a war zone) I was still in a daze from the day’s events and feeling like I was watching myself in a dream, someone knocked on the side of my tent.<span id="fullpost"> <br /><br />"Knock, knock," said a soft, low voice.<br /><br />"Come on in," I said.<br /><br />"Hi,” came a voice that I recognized as Father Taddy’s. He was a very soft spoken and dedicated Catholic Chaplain. I had spent most of the day with him and was surprised to see him again so soon.<br /><br />Turning around, I greeted him. "Hi, yourself. Did you stop by to get a little Baptist blessing?"<br /><br />"I think I may need one."<br /><br />"What's happening?” I asked.<br /><br />"I came by to see if you would like to go with me to the morgue."<br /><br />"It’s not my favorite place to visit. What's up?"<br /><br />"Division called me. They brought in four LRRP’s (long-range reconnaissance patrols). They're the guys that go out into the jungle and spy on the VC and bring back reports about their movement. These men didn't make it back alive. Do you want to go with me?”<br /><br />"I don't know about wanting to go, but sure, I'll go with you. Let me close up here and I'll be with you in a minute."<br /><br />We walked toward the casualty branch office near the MASH unit. Father Taddy began to tell me how understaffed the Catholic's were in the division and how the two priests assigned to the fourth had to cover the whole division. I felt fortunate to have only a battalion to cover and the brigade to support when I was at base camp.<br /><br />We came to the morgue, and a specialist met us at the door. "Hi Father, hi Chaplain. You're here to give the last rites to the guys they just brought in, right?"<br /><br />"Yes," said Father Taddy very softly. I was too nervous to say anything. I remember thinking: These will be the first men I have seen that were killed in action. KIA. Looking across the room I saw four gurneys with long black bags, one on each gurney.<br /><br />"Do you mind letting us take a look?" asked Father Taddy. The young man began to unzip the bags. Father Taddy began calmly to give the sacrament for the dead. I really didn't know what Protestant chaplains should do on an occasion like this. They never taught us about this situation in seminary.<br /><br />I couldn't help but look at the faces of these young men, who were eighteen or nineteen years old, eyes closed in a restful, at-peace expression. Their faces were painted with camouflage in black and dark green streaks. Each had a bullet hole right between those closed unseeing eyes. The VC had found them sleeping and shot them once through the head, giving them the eerie appearance of having a third black eye between the two closed eyes. <br /><br />The bodies were discovered together after they missed their radio contact, except for the one that was on watch. He was found about twenty-five feet farther in the jungle. He too, must have fallen asleep, never to be awakened on this earth again. I prayed to myself, "Lord God, what a tragic mess this war is. Please be with the families when they hear that their boys have been killed. Somehow help those loved ones make it through the days ahead."<br /><br />That was a strange day for me. I was beginning to believe that casualties came in groups of four. Twenty-two days later, I was waiting on this lonely helipad for a helicopter to pick me up and fly me with the cache of supplies to the battalion firebase, called, "Firebase Warrior." Our battalion-fighting name was "Red Warriors."<br /><br />Sitting on a helipad is a boring, hot, and sweaty part of a chaplain's duties. I was to find myself having many of my 8,240-plus Vietnam hours waiting as I attempted to fly out into the field to visit my troops and conduct worship services. I heard a jeep pull up behind me. I turned around and a major jumped out, grabbed his duffel bag, returned the salute of the driver and approached where I was sitting. I stood and started to salute, but he waved it off.<br /><br />"Morning, Major," I said, dropping my hand.<br /><br />"Hi, Chaplain. Are you on your way to the firebase?"<br /><br />"Yes, sir."<br /><br />"Good. So am I." He reached out his hand and offered a handshake. "I'm Randy, the new Battalion Executive Officer (XO). I arrived in the country five days ago and I'm just now getting here."<br /><br />"Welcome. I'm Don, the new Battalion Chaplain. I've been in the country a month now, but I just reported to the battalion last week. They put chaplains through a lot of crazy training before assigning them."<br /><br />"This is my second tour, so I guess I didn't need the training. Besides, the XO I'm replacing has already gone home."<br /><br />"Major Butler. I met him just before he left. He seemed happy to be getting out of Radcliff."<br /><br />"Don't blame him. Once you're on your way out, you get anxious to leave before something happens. Have you met the new CO?" he asked me.<br /><br />"No, I haven't met either one. LTC Anderson was in the field when I arrived and LTC Sterling came into HQ and was out at the firebase in an hour. This will be the first time for me to meet them both."<br /><br />"I understand there are plans for a change of command tomorrow morning, with the Division Band on the firebase," commented Randy.<br /><br />"I guess so; LTC Sterling sent word in that he wanted me there for the ceremony and for the dinner party tonight."<br /><br />"Dinner party! I didn't hear anything about a party,” said the major. "Things have really changed since my last tour. Back then, in sixty-eight, there would be no parties on any firebase. The biggest party was the war party of Tet."<br /><br />"Yeah, I've heard about that. The brigade sergeant who helped me to in-process told me that he was stationed in Pleiku when the VC overran the base, back then," I said.<br /><br />The major appeared to be giving me the once over. I thought that I might have had my cross on crooked or something else was wrong with my uniform.<br /><br />"Chaplain, can I ask you a personal question?"<br /><br />"You just did, but go ahead, ask away." I laughed at my attempt at humor.<br /><br />The major smiled, "What in the hell are you doing in Vietnam, anyway?"<br /><br />"That's a good question. I've asked myself that question for a month now. I didn't have to join the army, but the young men in my church congregation were being drafted, and when the Chaplain's Office asked me to join, I felt it was like a draft notice. To answer your question, I'm here because you're here."<br /><br />It was an answer that I would be giving over and over again in response to this most-asked question on my tour.<br /><br />"Good answer," said the major and gave me a pat on my shoulder. "How long have you been waiting?”<br /><br />I looked at my watch. "Just over an hour."<br /><br />"Damn! I hope it won't be much longer." Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he said, "Jesus, I forgot how humid this country could get." Then he looked at me to see what my expression might be. "I'm sorry, Chaplain, I didn't mean to cuss."<br /><br />I smiled. "I understand. I've been in the Army over four years, and I'm lucky I guess, no one has used my name in vain, yet. (Man, I hoped he had a sense of humor.) I just spent over two years in Okinawa so I'm sort of used to the military vocabulary as well as this humidity and muggy hot weather."<br /><br />"You know, Chaplain, when I'm back in the world, I'm pretty straight. I go to the Methodist Church and for the most part, my language is usually clean. But the minute I arrived here, it was f### this and f### that and who gives a f###. I use God's name from time to time as well. It doesn't mean anything, it just seems to happen."<br /><br />Just as he said that, there was, what became over the years, a familiar "whap-whap-whap" sound of the Huey Helicopter. They were the workhorses of the Vietnam War. Most often they were cleared of back seats so supplies could be easily thrown in and the Packs, referring to passengers, could just jump in and find a place to sit. <br /><br />They called these Hueys, slicks. It's been over thirty years now since I spent those hours waiting for that sound of helicopters. Whenever one flies over the house, I can close my eyes, and I'm back in Nam, seeing those welcome buggies of supplies and replacements.<br /><br />A GI appeared out of nowhere and began to throw in the supplies. The right door gunner jumped off and reported to the Major. He saluted and told the major to get in the front, that the CO was waiting for him at the firebase. I jumped into the back and found a space among the supplies. The left door gunner, grinning at me, gave the peace sign with his fingers in a V. Better than holding up only one finger, I thought to myself.<br /><br />The other door gunner jumped in and took his place behind the 50-caliber, signaled the pilot with the all-clear sign and the chopper began to rev-up. The blades began to make an assertive whirling, whipping sound and we were off over the golf course and departing Radcliff.<br /><br />For some reason, whenever I got into a helicopter I felt like I was floating, not flying. I can't explain the feeling; it was different from flying in a fixed wing. I remember walking in Saigon on my way to Japan for an R and R with a scout pilot who flew a fixed wing. <br /><br />We went by a group of choppers in the compound and he said, "I just don't believe those damn things can get off the ground. They must do it with mirrors. God didn't make boxcars to fly straight up."<br /><br />I was the only "Pack" to be going out, other than the major. So I was alone with my thoughts and the cokes, beer and ammo. I thought over the Major’s question that he had asked me, “Chaplain, what are you doing in Vietnam?” I thought of my family in Alameda, California.<br /><br />Only four weeks ago I was with my wife, "back in the world," an expression often used by soldiers in Vietnam. I dug in my pack and took out my journal. I leaned back against the metal cargo wall and began to write.</span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/oio4_eRiFfI" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com0http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/06/blind-faith-being-in-war-because-others_3900.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-24610831004535405702008-06-22T00:17:00.006-05:002008-06-22T01:42:15.310-05:00BLIND FAITH: Being In A War Because Others Have To Be There (Part 1)<p><span class="dropcap">I</span>t was Valentines Day, Saturday, February fourteenth, 1970, the day of love in Vietnam. I was waiting on what was called the "Golf Course." No U.S. Open would be played here, no Riders Cup competition, no Masters Tournament. This was no Cypress Point or Pebble Beach. I was not there to play golf. It was the name given to the helicopter landing area at Camp Radcliff in An Khe, South Vietnam, 277 miles north-northeast of Saigon.<br /></p><span id="fullpost"><p>Brigadier General Jack Wright, who decreed that the landing area would be cleared by hand, instead of using heavy equipment, which would strip the area of its protective grasses and bushes, named the landing strip, the Golf Course. Without the grass and bushes to anchor the soil, the area would be a dust bowl during the dry season when the helicopters landed and a quagmire during the monsoon season. General Wright declared that by cleaning the area by hand it would be "as clean as a golf course." The name stuck and even appears on topographic maps of the facility. It was a grand idea. Too bad he didn't have an air-conditioned clubhouse to go along with the course.<br /></p><p>I was sitting in the hot Vietnam sunshine breathing the heavy humidity, sweating profusely as I rested on several cases of beer with my feet on one of the half dozen or so wooden ammunition boxes. There were several cases of coke, two full bags of mail, and various other supplies to be forwarded to Firebase Warrior, where my Infantry Battalion Commander LTC. Anderson was to have his change of command ceremony on Sunday.</p><p>I was alone, except for the guard that was sitting in a little tin-sided shake at the far end of the dozen or so helipads. Even at a distance I could see a big, boldly painted "peace symbol" on the open door. Next to one of large gas fuel tanks nearby was another hand painted sign in bright red letters that read: "Super Shell with Platfermate will get you places you don't even want to go." I thought to myself, right on!</p><p>I took off my steel pot with its camouflage cover and adjusted the little black cross on the front. The cross was a symbol that told the soldiers that I was an army chaplain. I remembered being kidded by one of the officers in our base camp, that I should have my captain’s bars on the helmet, that way the VC wouldn’t think it was a sloppy x to mark the spot.</p><p>I took another look into my chaplain’s kit, to make sure, for the tenth time, that I had all my necessary supplies. The silver crucifix to place on any makeshift alter I could find while conducting services. My communion kit, a chalice that came in two pieces and screwed together to form a cup with a heavy base, and my little container, about the size of a snuffbox, that held the wafers. And of course, my little vial of wine, in which I dipped the wafers before placing them on the participants’ out-stretched tongues when giving the Lords Supper.</p><p>I thought as I looked over the kit: my, oh my, what if my Baptist friends could see me now, calling the Lord's Supper, communion, and dipping the unleavened wafer into real wine, not grape juice! I wondered what they would think? I was not sure what the long piece of black cloth with some holy words inscribed on each end symbolized. A shawl, you were supposed to put it around your neck when conducting services. I decided to just ignore it as too formal and priest-like.</p><p>I grabbed up my rucksack. A far cry from the seventy pounds that the average grunts took to the field. Mine contained a rubber air mattress, a change of underwear and a jungle uniform. There were two or three cans of sardines. I had packed three pairs of socks, my soft hat, my Bible and Stars and Stripes Newspaper, writing supplies, and of course, shaving gear and deodorant. I also had my daily log and notebook to keep track of the number of services I held each day and a head count of the number of attendees. Nixon wanted a Viet Cong body count for the record and the Chief of Chaplains wanted a GI head count for the religious record. I was beginning to understand that this conflict was a war of numbers.</p><p>This was to be my first visit to a firebase since I was in the country and assigned to my battalion, the 1/12 Infantry, the Red Warriors. It was a unit of the Fourth Infantry Division. A forward firebase was one step behind what served as the front line in the Vietnam War. Only there were no lines. It was more like circles. All throughout the II Corps and other U.S. Corps in South Vietnam, they used the same basic configuration. Base camp was where the division was located with all its various brigades and battalions.</p><p>Radcliff was such a base camp. It was named in honor of Major Donald Radcliff who was the first man killed in action when the 1st Cavalry Division arrived in the area around 1966. It was a sprawling base surrounded by a perimeter defense known as the Green Line.</p><p>The firebase was also subject to mortar attacks or infiltration by the VC. From the base camps battalions would go out into the jungle and clear a round area of two or three acres and set up a perimeter of defense similar to base camp, but on a far lesser scale. When the firebase was set up, the various battalion companies would go into the jungle and bush to carry out search and destroy missions. That was as forward as you could get unless you were on a long-range reconnaissance patrol called (LURRP's) or a squad point man "breaking bush."</p><p>Since 1969, the Fourth Infantry Division was in the midst of a new operation and policy, called "Vietnamization." It was an attempt to turn over the major fighting of the Viet Cong known as the VC to the Republic of Vietnam Army. The RVNA's were the South Vietnam army. The concept gave some hope that the combat troops were heading for the real world, home in the U.S.A.</p><p>In the meantime the war had to continue. The battalion would build a firebase that offered support for the various battalion combat companies to go out into the jungle to fight, if they could find the enemy. Firebases such as Warrior's, where I was headed were closer to population areas around Radcliff to protect them from the VC.</p><p>So far my first month in Vietnam had been rather peaceful, with the exception of Thursday, January 23.</p></span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/bOLr_0Lm1hc" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com0http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/06/blind-faith-being-in-war-because-others_22.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2528220266224935364.post-58152739053895792342008-06-21T17:49:00.003-05:002008-06-22T01:40:45.017-05:00Introduction<p><span class="dropcap">V</span>ietnam, how could this small Indochina country that I never heard of in any of my high school history classes come to affect my life and millions of other lives throughout the world? This strange country so far away from my world had it&#8217;s beginning in the same timeframe as the beginnings of Christianity, over 2,000 years ago.</p><span id="fullpost"><p>Vietnam's country is an &quot;S&quot; shaped landmass, slithering like a two-headed snake in the heart of Indochina. One of the snakeheads is located in the North Country centered in the city of Hanoi. The other end with its head in the South, has its power center in the city of Saigon. These two heads are connected by a spinal cord of twisting mountain ranges. This connecting backbone is eighty per cent jungle and deep bush that offers a geographical protection to both the Western Vietnam border and the Eastern Cambodia border. It runs from the North and South along its' twelve thousand miles of snake-like body. The South China Sea protects its coastline along the Eastern Shore line.</p> <p>I recall when I first arrived in Vietnam. Several planeloads of other military personnel and I were marched into a briefing room to hear a lecture on Vietnam's history and culture. The instructor was a 1st Lieutenant information officer. He described Vietnam as two baskets of rice at opposite ends of a bamboo pole, carried on the back of a peasant farmer. The baskets of rice represent the two deltas of Vietnam (two snakes head's one at each end). The Red River in the north and the Mekong River in the south of the country form them. The bamboo pole is represented by the mountain range with its' high peaks and its' vast jungles and undergrowth.</p> <p>The instructor pointed out that rice was the major factor for the civil wars that plagued the country for over 2,000 years. The northern basket was the industrial power and the southern basket was the agricultural power. Each pulled against the other in attempting to try and control the other country.</p> <p>In that lecture, the instructor gave the party line of course, claiming that the North took advantage of the South and repressed them in any manner possible. I had heard similar stories from my Southern friends in Mississippi who explained the Civil War of the United States in the same power struggle terms.</p> <p>Our instructor stressed the party line of former presidents Eisenhower, Kennedy and President Nixon. He hammered home that the United States and its allies were in Vietnam to prevent a hostile takeover by Ho Chi Minh and the evil empire of Hanoi, which was aligned with communist Russia. He spent a great deal of time describing the domino theory. That was the political idea that smaller countries were lined up like a wall of dominoes. If one were pushed over, all of them would fall in a chain reaction. He stressed the point that the area of Indochina was a line of nations like dominos. If the United States allowed one to fall toward the communists then all the others countries would fall with it. Our reason for being in Vietnam was to prevent the United States from losing the global domino game. I remember thinking to myself as I looked over the sea of young faces, some who had not even began to shave, I&#8217;m here only because you have to be here.</p> <p>The instructor failed to mention the problem the French had with Vietnam and Ho Chi Minh. How in 1954 the French lost their war with Hanoi at Dienbienphu in spite of their military might and assistance with finances from the United States.</p> <p>Most of the participants in that information briefing had little or no idea who the players were in the Vietnam conflict.&#160; They certainly had no idea what was causing them to have to sit there and listen to a Second Lieutenant tell them why it was necessary for them to leave their families. Why should they have to be the ones risking their lives to keep the dominoes from falling across the world?</p> <p>No one asked: &quot;Who is Ho Chi Minh?&#8221; (North Vietnam&#8217;s president, and for the most part, its spiritual leader.) No one asked: &quot;What was the Vietminh?&#8221; (North Vietnam) No one asked: &quot;Who is Vo Nguyen Giap?&#8221; (The General in command of North Vietnam Army.) Not one participant asked: &quot;Who is Ngo Dinh Diem?&#8221; (He was a South Vietnam leader). Not one participating asked: &quot;What did the Gulf of Tonkin have to do with the war?&quot; (It was President Johnson's excuse for the United States Army buildup in South Vietnam.) </p> <p>The list of questions could go on and on. In retrospect, most of the troops I met in Vietnam were like me. They did not know about the background of the war that they were asked and commanded to fight. They did not know enough about the political situation to even ask questions. They were there in Vietnam relying on blind faith. Their country said, &#8220;go,&#8221; and&#160; like thousands over the years have done for our country, they went.</p> <p>On my way out of the lecture briefing on the history and culture of Vietnam, I began to reflect on my own reasons for joining the Army and becoming an Army Chaplain.</p> <p>Early in January 1966, I was a pastoring my first full-time church. I was paid the salary of one hundred dollars a week and provided a parsonage for my family. The church was located in the suburbs of Fresno, California and was named the Calwa First Baptist Church of Calwa, California.</p> <p>Calwa was a two-hundred member church set in the suburbs of blue color workers on the South Side of Fresno. The church ministered to an aging sub-division of first time homeowners. Its growth and potential was at a stand still. The once-young families were aging or moving out to larger homes to accommodate their growing families.</p> <p>I was starting to wake up to the world around me. I had finished seminary; I had my first son and my first full time pastorate. I was a hopeful minister on my way into my calling from God.</p> <p>The year of hope for the United States offensive in the Republic of South Vietnam was 1966. General Westmoreland had placed the American Army forces in Vietnam on the offensive for the first time. On New Year's Day, the 173rd Airborne Brigade rolled into the plains of Reeds, just South of Saigon. They were the first American forces to operate west of the Oriental River, taking over the Bao Trai airstrip.</p> <p>One of America&#8217;s staunchest allies, the Australians, sent the First Battalion of the Royal Australian Regiment into the battle. They took their position on the East Side of the Oriental River. The river was therefore cut off from the use by the Viet Cong who had used the river freely for some time in their invading the South through that passageway.</p> <p>In mid January 1966, the allied forces began what was known as their search and destroy missions between Chu Lai and Qui Nhon by both the Marines and 1st Cavalry Divisions. They uncovered heavy enemy concentrations of Viet Cong in the area. They were, for the first time taking the war to the VC.</p> <p>My third year as pastor of the Calwa Church began in 1966. I had no idea what this entire hubbub going on in Vietnam would mean to me. I preached to my congregation twice on Sunday and once in the middle of the week. I was aware that several families of my parishioners had children drafted who were serving somewhere in Vietnam. We had prayer for them on a regular basis in our Sunday services and in our prayer meetings on Wednesday evenings.</p> <p>The newspaper reported in late January or early February that after six weeks of hard fighting the enemy was finally on the run. The United States was winning the war. The VC had left 2,389 bodies behind. America and its allies were harassing the enemy day and night on the ground and in the air. The headlines in the newspaper were filled with hope for an early victory in the war.</p> <p>In late February, one of my church families received a telegram stating that their son was missing in action in Vietnam. The war had come to Calwa, to the First Baptist Church, to someone I knew and had to minister to. The newspapers played down the fact that Americans were losing lives in the war. A few war protesters were out there somewhere. Every once in a while the TV would show a college student burning his draft card before running off to Canada.</p> <p>In February 1966, the press and news stations made a big deal out of President Johnson&#8217;s flying to Honolulu to hold a military conference. He met with South Vietnamese Premier Nguyen Cao Ky and his military advisors. There he pledged continued support to South Vietnam, as long as it maintained a democratic effort. It was at this meeting that Johnson told the Vietnamese, &quot;It was time to nail the coonskins to the wall.&quot;</p> <p>General Westmoreland, feeling that victory was at hand, knew what it would take to nail those coonskins. He requested additional troops be sent to mop up the coons. He wanted the President to request thirty-one more combat battalions, bringing the total American troop strength to 429,000. He did not get his request in full, but the American troop involvement in the war soared to 385,000. I did not know at the time, but I would be one of those additional new troops.</p> <p>In March of 1966, I received a letter in the mail from the Sixth Army Chaplains Office in the Presidio of San Francisco. The Staff Chaplain was requesting that I consider applying for a commission in the Army Chaplaincy Corps. He pointed out the spiritual needs of our 385,000 men serving in the Vietnam War and how they were keeping that country from falling into godless communist control.</p> <p>The letter read like a draft notice to me. It pointed out my qualifications. I was of the right age to receive a commission. I had over two years experience pastoring churches. I was a seminary graduate. My denomination had given them my name; thus assuring an endorsement would be forthcoming. My wife joked that one of my deacons must have suggested my name to the Sixth Army. It did indeed read like a draft notice. The only way Chaplains entered the Armed Forces was by volunteering.</p> <p>Two days after the letter arrived, I received a large packet of enlistment forms from the Chief of Chaplains in Washington D.C, requesting that I fill them out immediately so they could be quickly processed. My wife and I looked over the stack of forms. They were almost overwhelming with so much paper work to be filled out. I put them in a folder and took them over to my office and laid them on my desk.</p> <p>A week or so later, on a Fresno hot and humid day as I was going home for lunch, I grabbed the folder from the desk and took it on to the parsonage. As I entered the kitchen through the back door, I commented to my wife that since we had the parking lot black topped it burned my feet coming home for lunch. I threw the file on the kitchen table. Gwen, my dear wife, was doing the ironing and watching the news on TV. The attic humidifier fan was cranked up full strength. I sat down at the table. &quot;What should I do about these forms?&quot; I asked. Continuing to iron and watching the news, she said, &quot;Send them in, or burn your draft card, I guess.&quot; That was it. We filled the forms out, and sent them to the Chaplains&#8217; office. I remember thinking; maybe I won't pass the physical. My back kept me from playing football in high school.</p> <p>Two weeks later I received a telegram from the Department of the Army, Chaplains branch. It was written in some sort of military code or jargon. I wasn't sure what it said. Was I in the Army or not? I took the telegram to the Army recruiter in Fresno. The Captain looked it over, stuck out his hand and said, &quot;Congratulations, you are now a First Lieutenant in the United States Chaplains Army Corps.&quot; Then he added. &quot;If you pass your physical.&quot;</p> <p>He escorted me right to the military enlistment center where I was given a military physical on the spot. I kept thinking, I wonder if my back will keep me out? The exam is funny now. The doctor checked to see if I was breathing and passed me back to the recruiter who said, &quot;Chaplain, you are to report to Chaplain&#8217;s Officers&#8217; basic course sometime in October. I called your branch and you will receive orders in two weeks.&#8221;</p> <p>Four years later, in January 1970, I finally arrived in Vietnam. What is to follow, is a record of that experience gleaned from diaries, and copies of letters I sent to a mentor chaplain friend, Chaplain (LTC) Jim Miller, who was stationed in Okinawa.</p> <p>I hope someday my two boys will sit down and read this effort of love for them and for my country. I truly entered the military relying on blind faith and my God.</p></span><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/BlindFaith/~4/03gUFRAHbvc" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Tonyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11404061538931018780noreply@blogger.com0http://blindfaithbook.blogspot.com/2008/06/introduction.html